There's A Silver Lining
by mallorysaens
Summary: My first fanfiction: a Sherlock/ Doctor Who crossover. Post Reichenbach for John and Sherlock. Somewhere in Series Six for The Doctor, Amy, and Rory. There has been a rise in suspicious activity in London and The Doctor and his companions have taken it upon themselves to investigate. I'd love to hear what you think about it! Please review!
1. I Get Along Without You Very Well

Chapter One: I Get Along Without You Very Well

It had been three years. Three years since that fateful day when Sherlock took his own life. John had moved out of the flat on Baker Street and moved into a new one over in Battersea. Ms. Hudson had offered to let him stay in 221 B, despite him not being able to make the rent, but he had decided against it. Not only was it unfair to put sweet old Ms. Hudson out like that, it was just too much to be surrounded by so much, well, so much _Sherlock_. Even after three years it still hurt John. It wasn't that sharp stabbing sensation that it used to be. No, it had faded into somewhat of a dull ache in his chest. Sometimes John forgot about it completely, only for it to sneak up on him out of the blue; maybe he was getting Chinese late at night, or he had spotted someone in a scarf and coat… Either way, John was actually getting along quite well. He was still a little short on cash, but he had found some consistent work at St. Bart's, with some help from Sarah. He had started dating a very nice young woman by the name of Catherine and it was going quite well, at least John thought it was. John had settled quite nicely in his post Sherlock life. His leg had started acting up again and there was a slight tremor in his left hand, but John just assumed that it was just a result of his more sedentary lifestyle. Really, everything had been going quite well. Sure, it had been a little dull, but maybe that was just what John needed.

Today, John was smiling as he waved down a taxi and set off for work. He had a twenty minute commute; not ideal, but he could deal with it. He pulled out the day's paper from his bag and began to read it while enjoying his breakfast. _Dog Saves Owner From Burning Building! Our Country's Building Debt: What Will Our Future Hold? Deadly Chemicals In Your Cat's Food: Are Our Children At Risk?_ "More of the same," mumbled John, turning to the next page, "Good, God… How does this garbage qualify as news?"

"Bored," said a painfully familiar voice in John's head. John sighed. Three years, three whole years and that voice still hadn't left him. He had resigned to the fact that it never would. He didn't mind it too much really. It was almost nice that a little bit of Sherlock was still with him; even if it did lead to a horrible sinking sensation when John remembered he would never _really_ hear that voice again.

John spent the rest of the ride to work silently staring out the window. London seemed so peaceful from inside a car. How ironic, as peaceful was certainly not a word most would use to describe London. Busy, noisy, chaotic… Those were the type of words most people would use to describe the city. Not John. These days London was just peaceful. No adventures, no crazy crime scenes, just good old London in all of its glory. John couldn't honestly say he didn't like this new, old London. However, he couldn't honestly say he didn't miss the old chaotic, Sherlock Holmes London either. _Oh, for God's sake! Three years! Stop dwelling on it. You are getting by perfectly fine! _thought John. He really was thinking about Sherlock much more than normal this morning.

The taxi came to a stop just outside St. Bart's. John paid the driver and hopped out of the car with a quick, "Thanks." The driver gave him a nod and drove off. John hurried up the steps to the front door, careful to give a wide berth to a certain stretch of sidewalk.

"Good morning, John!" chirped the new receptionist. She'd only been working at Bart's for a few weeks but she already knew everyone by name.

"Good morning Amelia," smiled John.


	2. What a Difference a Day Made

Chapter Two: What A Difference A Day Made

John liked Amelia, she had a wicked sense of humour, and he couldn't leave out the fact that she was incredibly good looking. That hair… John had always been partial to redheads. He had been more than a little disappointed when he noticed the ring on her finger. Then he met Catherine, and Catherine was pretty great. It was too bad Catherine was a brunette…

"You have a new patient today, Dr. Watson." She giggled a little when she used his last name.

"Thanks, Amy, I'll get right on it."

John turned and headed down to the room he would be using for the day. There were already several people in the waiting room suffering from a variety of symptoms. Today there was a plethora of coughing. John hated coughing. It gets annoying when you have to listen to it for eight hours straight. That was one thing he didn't like about being a doctor; the sick people. And the crazy people; the ones who were convinced that every little bug bite could be their death or that the new freckle on their arm meant they had skin cancer.

John's new patient, it seemed, was a crazy one. According to her file she was fifty four. She looked much older. Her purple flowered dress didn't do anything for her rather large figure, and she was coughing up a storm. John sat down at his desk and looked up at her. "Mrs. Tharpe? Am I pronouncing that right? What seems to be the problem?"

"For starters, my knee hurts to high heavens, my stomach itches on the inside, and my heart feels like it's on fire. Now, I have this awful cough," Mrs. Tharpe took this opportunity to demonstrate said cough, "and no medicine can cure it."

John sighed. Looking down at the file he noticed that she had been in four times last week and twice this week. "How long has this cough been bothering you Mrs. Tharpe?"

"About a week; my husband said that I needed to shut up and stop complaining about it so I came here to get cured."

"I can't promise you a cure, Mrs. Tharpe, however I can write you up a prescription for some Benzonatate. That should get rid of your cough for a while. The pharmacy is downstairs to your left."

"Thank you, Dr. Wats—

Mrs. Tharpe's expression of gratitude was interrupted by her sudden fit of vomiting. _Shit_, thought John,_ That was my favourite jumper. Maybe she wasn't faking after all_.

"Here, Mrs. Tharpe… Let me help you." John got up and wrapped an arm around the convulsing woman's rather large waist. He steered her over to a sink in the corner of the room and held her hair back as she continued to rid herself of what seemed to be a rather large breakfast. _She has to be done sometime soon_, thought John. This was certainly more than a healthy amount of vomit. John was considering calling for help, and then food became blood and his decision was made for him. He let go of Mrs. Tharpe's hair and made his way over to the intercom.

"This is Dr. Watson in room 312. A woman is coughing up blood and I believe she needs to be taken to the E.R." John was fairly well acclimated to this kind of situation after years in the army. However, he couldn't help but notice how his voice quavered a bit as he spoke. _Oh, God. I've gone soft_, thought John as he wiped his hands off on his already soiled jumper. He hurried back over to Mrs. Tharpe who now looked as if she were about to collapse. "There, there, it's alright. You're going to be fine…" murmured John, trying to sooth the panicking woman.

It wasn't long before assistance arrived in the form of another doctor and two nurses. They gave Mrs. Tharpe a large plastic bag and then proceeded to lift her onto a stretcher so she could be taken down to urgent care. John, now having nothing to do, looked blankly around the empty room. Mrs. Tharpe's file was still on the table. John crossed the room and picked it up, shaking off some of the mess that had landed on it. _I should take this to reception_, thought John, _Someone needs to call her husband_. File in hand, John walked down to Amy's desk, ignoring the disgusted looks many people felt the need to cast his way.

When John approached Amy appeared to be talking to her shoes or to something very near her shoes. "For goodness sake Doctor, there is nothing there. It probably rolled under the desk. Stop crawling around like an idiot, I'll just go get another." John, assuming that this "Doctor" she referred to was him looked at here with a thoroughly confused look on his face.

"What are you talking about?" he asked. Amy looked up suddenly, only then noticing his presence.

"Oh, I'm sorry John! I just dropped my pen and this idiot—" she kicked something that gave a muffled groan "—was just trying to find it." She gave John a slightly embarrassed smile as her friend's head popped up from under the desk. "This is The Doctor," said Amy, "Doctor, this is John."

"Ah, yes! Watson, right? Knew it! Amelia has told me quite a bit about you!" said The Doctor, rather quickly. This strange disheveled man greatly reminded John of a nine-year-old; a nine year old in suspenders and a bowtie.

"Hello, um, Dr. I'm sorry, I must have missed your name. Dr. who?" asked John, he received a smirk from Amy and a genuine smile from The Doctor.

"Just The Doctor. The Doctor is perfectly fine," answered The Doctor. He really did seem to be enjoying himself. John was honestly confused. This man had to be the strangest man he had ever met in his life, and that was really saying something. There it was again; that painful hollow feeling. _Not now, John_! he thought, silently reprimanding himself.

"I'm sorry, but when you say that your _name_ is 'The Doctor' does that mean that you are not actually _a_ doctor?" asked John again, feeling more foolish by the minute.

"I like to help people if that counts for anything. But, alas, I am not truly a doctor, in the common sense at least." The Doctor smiled again. He was now sitting, legs crossed, on Amy's desk.

"Okay…" John was beginning to catch on now, "Nice to meet you, Doctor."

"Nice to meet you too, John," another smile. The Doctor then turned to Amy. Quietly he asked, "Are you sure he's the one?"

"Positive," was her reply. The Doctor turned back to John, his face was dead serious now.

"John, I need you to come with me."


	3. Polka Dots and Moonbeams

Chapter Three: Polka Dots and Moonbeams

The Doctor was looking at John with the most serious face he had ever seen. He almost looked sad. "I'm sorry, but we've only just met. Where exactly would we be going?" John had to ask.

"If I told you, you wouldn't believe me," replied The Doctor, now offering up a halfhearted smile.

"So, you expect me to abandon my work and go off with you to God knows where?"

"Trust me, you need to come." There was no trace of that nine-year-old John had seen earlier. Amy was giving him a look that very clearly said,_ If you don't come, you will regret it forever_. John sighed.

"I have to be back here by noon."

"That can be arranged," said The Doctor, taking Amy's hand, "Come along Pond, and-er-Watson." John followed the two out of the building down a variety of crowded streets, and then down a rather dark, unappealing alley. John was starting to seriously question coming with them. This really wasn't looking to good from his perspective. Just as John was thinking about making up some excuse and turning back, The Doctor and Amy stopped. "Here we are!" The Doctor was smiling again as he gestured towards a large blue box.

"And where are we exactly?" John was still entirely confused about what they were doing down this dirty alley, and what was so important about this box.

"This is the TARDIS!" The Doctor was honestly beaming now, "Would you like to come inside?"

"You know what, I think I'm good." John had absolutely no intention of going inside some madman's box. Amy rolled her eyes.

"Oh c'mon you lump! It's perfectly fine! Neither of us have any plans to kill you!" laughed Amy, "Just come inside." John, finding himself unable to refuse Amy, took a deep breath and followed her into the TARDIS.

He stepped into the box, expecting some sort of cramped, dusty interior, most likely ridden with cobwebs. Nope. That was not what the inside of The Doctor's TARDIS looked like. In fact, he didn't appear to be inside of that strange box at all. He was standing in a large circular looking room with all sorts of strange knobs and dials. There was a high ceiling and a circular control panel looking thing in the center. A young man was sitting in a chair facing the door.

"Can you please stop leaving me here like this, Doctor? I really don't like being alone inside this thing. I feel like it's going to jump off to Mars or something," said the man.

"Sorry, Rory, I had some important business to attend to," The Doctor gave a sideways glance at John.

"You must be John," said Rory, "It's nice to meet you. Doctor, this doesn't mean I'm done with you yet!"

"Hello, Rory. Will you all just excuse me for one moment?" John stammered before rushing outside of the TARDIS. He circled it a good three or four times before coming back inside. The Doctor, Amy, and Rory were all looking at him expectantly.

"Go ahead, say it!" encouraged The Doctor, an ill- disguised look of glee on his face.

"It's bigger on the inside!" John finally managed to get it out.

"Do you need a moment?" asked The Doctor, still smiling.

"Yeah, yeah, a moment would be good," stammered John. Rory offered him his chair and John sat down, slowly taking in his situation. He looked around the room that was bigger on the inside, trying to figure out what exactly he was doing there. He came up blank. He had absolutely no clue what was happening. This was truly bizarre, and who on earth were these people that seemed to find it so normal? John had no clue. He was completely lost. Finally the question he had been meaning to ask since the start came to his lips, "Why am I here?"

"You, John, are here because we need your help," The Doctor's face was, once again, dead serious. "For quite some time the TARDIS has been picking up some strange signals from around London. We've been noticing some suspicious behavior, and quite frankly, something isn't right. We don't know what it is, but something is off. I've been studying this for while and have drawn a blank. I'm stumped."

"I don't think I'm really the right person for this," answered John,_ but I know who would be_, went through his mind.

"Well, John, you see, it has come to our attention that you know a man by the name of Sherlock Holmes," said The Doctor.

"Knew, I knew a man by the name of Sherlock Holmes… He was my best friend, but he's dead now," John's voice almost broke when he spoke. _Three years! Get over it already!_ thought John for the second time that day. The Doctor cast a questioning glance at Amy.

"I told you," she said with a shrug of her shoulders. The Doctor sighed; this was going to be more difficult than he thought.

"John, he isn't dead. Sherlock is alive," said The Doctor, running a hand through his hair.

"What are you talking about? Of course he's dead! I saw it happen! He jumped off the roof of Saint Bart's! I saw the body!" John was furious. How could they make this into a joke?

"John, he isn't dead. We saw him. He's alive, and he's in London," said Amy.

"No," said John, "He isn't. He's been dead for three years." This wasn't happening. What were they saying? John felt faint. Then there was an arm about his shoulders. He saw red hair and smelt flowers. Amy spoke softly, loud enough for only John to hear.

"John, he's alive. Sherlock Holmes is alive."

_No, this was not possible_, thought John_, How could Sherlock be alive?_


	4. Polka Dots and Moonbeams (continued)

Chapter Four: Polka Dots and Moonbeams (continued)

John sat there inside the strange box contemplating the possibility that his best friend, whom he had believed to be dead for the past three years, was alive. It was impossible. John had though it through a thousand times. For a year, he lay awake at night trying desperately to come up with some way for Sherlock to have lived. There wasn't one. No, there just wasn't. John had seen him fall. He had seen the body, broken on the ground. There was a note. Sherlock was dead. He jumped off the roof of Saint Bartholomew's hospital. John had accepted this. He had moved on. Why was this man trying to take him back to that horrible place? What kind of a sick joke was this? Maybe Sherlock was alive after all… Perhaps he had found a way to survive the fall…_ No. Nobody could survive that drop. I saw the body. I received Molly's autopsy report. I want to the funeral. Sherlock is dead, _thought John.

While John was lost in thought, questioning the death of his friend, The Doctor, Amy, and Rory had some serious questions of their own to discuss. Rory has his arm draped protectively around Amy's shoulders. The Doctor was pacing, running his fingers to his hair. "We can't do this," he said, "We can't put him through this."

"But, Doctor, he's alive! We have to tell him."

"No, Amy. This man has been hurt enough." Their eyes found the poor man slumped over in his chair, he looked utterly broken. This time it was Rory who spoke up.

"Amy's right, we have to tell him. I know what it's like to think you've lost someone. Heck, I know what it's like to think you killed the love of your life," Rory gave Amy a significant glance, "But I also know how it feels to get them back. It's worth it Doctor."

"Yes, Doctor! I've lost Rory too! We know how it feels. Sometimes it's better not to feel it all, but anything is worth going through if it means getting them back again." The Doctor watched Amy as she spoke. Sadness drifted across his face.

"It isn't the same," he stated, "John has had three whole years to come to terms with this. We'd be taking away a huge part of his life."

"Yes! A huge terrible part! Look at him! He wants him back! We have no right to deny him the opportunity to see his best friend alive again!" Amy was yelling now. It was a true measure of how out of it John was that he didn't notice her. Something in The Doctor's face softened.

"I know, Amelia. I know. But, you just have to trust me on this one." Amy's eyes were daggers as she opened her mouth ready to fight The Doctor, but Rory interjected before she had the chance.

"Doctor, I think you're forgetting why we came here. We all saw Sherlock and he's has brilliant as they say, but he won't help us. We need John. If anyone can bring Sherlock out of hiding it's him. We need Sherlock, and Sherlock needs John. We don't have much of a choice," said Rory, always the voice of reason. The Doctor sighed, Rory was right; they had to do this.

"We'll ask him. If he says no, we won't push it. We'll leave, and he can go on with his life without any further disturbance from us," resigned The Doctor. He walked over to where John sat, still in a trance, and put his hand on the poor man's shoulder. "John, are you feeling alright?" John started. He had forgotten that he was not alone.

"Honestly, Doctor, I can't say that I am. You show up at my office all polka dots and moonbeams and expect me to simply run off into your strange 'TARDIS' thing like it's perfectly normal. Then, to top it all off, you tell me that Sherlock isn't dead. What on earth are you playing at? None of this is alright!" burst John, finally collecting his thoughts. Amy and Rory were watching helplessly from the sideline as the Doctor struggled to form his next sentence. The Doctor kneeled down next to John and looked him directly in the eyes, noticing that they were full of tears.

"John, I know that none of this is making sense right now, but I need you to trust me. Please," The Doctor practically whispered when he spoke, "Sherlock is alive. I know this because I saw him with my own two eyes. I would never play a joke like this. I swear, with every fiber of my being, that everything I have told you is the truth." John looked deep into this man's eyes; The Doctor was not lying. He honestly believed that Sherlock was alive. There was no doubt that The Doctor and his companions had seen Sherlock, or someone they wholeheartedly believed to be Sherlock. Suddenly, John felt a little bubble of hope rise in his chest.

"Take me to him," breathed John. The Doctor gave him a sad smile. Amy positively beamed. Rory gave a solemn nod of approval.

"Shall we go then, Doctor?" asked Rory.

"Yes, right! We have work to do!" exclaimed The Doctor, slapping his hands together and hurrying over to the controls in the center of the room. He began pulling down levers and pressing buttons, resulting in the strangest sound John had ever heard. He couldn't possible describe it; it was perfectly unique. There was a short period of silence, then, John heard the noise again. The Doctor stopped, pulling one last lever. He looked at John, "We're here."

* * *

**A/N** I wanted to split this chapter into two parts to keep it from getting to long. I feel that short chapter are best suited for this story. The next chapter (slight spoiler alert) involves the reunion of John and Sherlock. I have most of it written and might even post it tonight. Writing it got me thinking: How do you think Sherlock survived the fall? I have my own theory that I wrote up, but I want to know what you guys think. Please comment and review! And thank you so much for reading this!


	5. You'd Be So Nice to Come Home To

Chapter Five: You'd Be So Nice to Come Home To

_Here?_ thought John, _How can we be "here", we haven't moved. _But, when The Doctor opened the TARDIS doors, it seemed that they had moved. They were no longer in an alley, in fact, the doors opened onto what appeared to be a fairly busy street. At this point, considering the day's previous events, John was hardly concerned with this seemingly impossible feat. He turned to Rory, with a rather resigned look, "It moves? Just like that?" Rory smiled.

"Yep," answered Rory, "It does some other stuff as well, but we don't need to get into that now." John sighed. This day was by far the strangest day in his life, and it wasn't even ten o'clock yet.

John followed the others outside, onto the street. The Doctor was walking right ahead, hardly bothering to look back to see if any of his companions were keeping up. It looked to John that they were heading to an old apartment building. It was about six stories high and rather worse for wear. There were shutters on the windows, but many of them were broken or had fallen off altogether. The paint was peeling in many places and two or three windows were smashed. _Is this where Sherlock is?_ thought John. He didn't like the idea of Sherlock living a place like this, but he also couldn't deny the fact that Sherlock probably wouldn't mind it. Brilliant as he was, Sherlock wasn't the type of person to bother with an extravagant apartment. If Sherlock were alive, this old building wouldn't be a bad place to look. _It doesn't matter,_ thought John again, _because Sherlock is dead_.

When they stopped walking, they were, indeed, in front of the apartments. The Doctor turned to John and asked, "Are you sure, John? Completely, one-hundred-percent sure, that you want to do this?"

"Yes. I'm sure. If Sherlock is alive, I want to find him," said John. _But he isn't so it doesn't matter, _said a voice in his head. The Doctor, not knowing about the last part, nodded and gestured to John to come with him.

Somehow, The Doctor had a key to the door. The building was so old that there wasn't even a buzzer. Once inside, John followed The Doctor down a dark hallway. Amy and Rory had opted to wait outside the building. This was John's moment, and they recognized that it was not their place. The Doctor and John went up four flights of stairs and down another hallway before The Doctor stopped in front of a door with the number 415 on it in bronze letters.

"We can still turn back," he said. But John was not about to turn around now. He was here. This was it. He looked The Doctor right in the eye.

"Open the door." The Doctor did, and what John saw took his breath away.

It was a room. Dirty and covered in what looked to be newspaper clippings. All over the walls there were articles. Some had headlines large enough for John to read from a distance. '_Moriarty: Made Up Or Mastermind?' 'The Great, Late, Sherlock Holmes: Lies He Told.' _There were many other similar headlines scattered across the room, but the one that stood out the most was a lone newspaper on the wall facing the door: _'Suicide of Fake Genius.' _Looking around the room John knew. He knew. Sherlock had been here, and it looked as if he still was. There were curtains up around a left corner of the room. John looked back at The Doctor. The Doctor nodded and stepped out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Now it was just John. Just John and whatever was behind those curtains. He drew a deep breath, and crossed the room. He reached out a hand to pull back the stained fabric. Even before the veil was removed, John knew what he would find.

Sherlock was lying on a couch. He was staring at the screen on his laptop, entirely oblivious to John's presence. John just stared. He made no sound. **_This was not real._** But it was. There was no doubt; the man on the couch was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He was pale and emaciated. Without anyone around to force him to eat he seemed to have abandoned the habit altogether. There was a pack of cigarettes on the floor next to him. John drew another breath. He realized that he was shaking.

"What the hell is this!" he demanded. Sherlock looked up; first it was shock, then it was pain, then it was the saddest expression John had ever seen in his life, all in the space of a millisecond. Then it was Sherlock, looking at him with the same impassive face he wore when playing the violin.

"I see they told you I was here," said Sherlock calmly. His voice was cracked from lack or use. John was outraged. Whatever relief he had felt for seeing his friend alive again vanished.

"That's all you have to say? 'I see they told you I was here?' THREE YEARS, SHERLOCK! For three years I believed you were dead! And now, I discover that you're alive and that's all you say? 'I see they told you I was here!' What the HELL is wrong with you? Are your emotions really that far out of reach? I saw you die! You were dead! For three whole years you were dead and what do I get what I see you again? 'I see they told you I was here?!' Seriously, Sherlock? No, "Hello, John, it's lovely to see you again. Sorry for allowing you to believe that I was dead for three years?" You can't even manage that? It has been three years since I last saw you, and you're just lying there on that stupid couch like nothing has changed? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?" John couldn't contain himself. It was too much; all of this. It was too much. He didn't know what anything was anymore. Sherlock was alive. Sherlock was alive, and seemed entirely oblivious to the ordeal he had put John through.

"I'm sorry, John," said Sherlock. John was not having it.

"Yeah, you sure look it. This is ridiculous. I don't know what I expected coming here. Well, actually I do. I expected not to find you because you're dead!"

"I'm not dead," said Sherlock simply.

"Oh, wow. Very insightful! The great Sherlock Holmes does it again! Seriously, Sherlock? This is it? Three years, and this is what you give me?" cried John.

"What do you expect, John? An 'I'm so sorry for sacrificing myself to save your life?' Is that what you want? Fine; John, I'm sorry for sacrificing to save your life. Happy?" Sherlock's tone was painfully empty.

"You sacrificed yourself to save me? Really? I DIED THAT DAY!"

"No, I died that day." Sherlock was really not doing anything to help his situation.

"No, you didn't!" shouted John, "You're here! You didn't fucking die! But thanks for letting me believe that you did!"

"It was for the best," Sherlock wasn't even looking at him now.

"Some friend you are," spat John.

"I don't have friends."

"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock, are we back there now? You do have friends, or at least you had them. I'm not sure how they'll react when they find out you aren't actually dead."

"Well, you're never going to know because I'm not going to tell them," Sherlock said.

"Why the hell not?" demanded John. Sherlock looked at him.

"I'm a fraud. I'm dangerous and unstable. I failed all of you. All I do is put people in danger."

"Oh, stop it. You're not a fraud. Everybody who loves you knows that. Hell, even Anderson admitted it," John was calming down now, having gotten most of the anger out of his system.

"That doesn't change the fact that I put all of you in danger. They were going to kill you. They were going to kill you because of me," Sherlock's voice broke when he spoke the last word. His face was still blank, but John could see through the mask now.

"Anyone associated with you knows exactly what they are getting themselves into. We put ourselves in danger. It was our doing, not yours. Nothing was your fault." John could see that Sherlock didn't believe him, but it didn't matter, "I've missed you."

"I've missed you too, John," said Sherlock. John smiled; he couldn't believe it. He had Sherlock back. His best friend was alive.

Sherlock was alive.

* * *

**A/N** Here it is! I'm sorry for the swearing. I don't normally like to write that kind of stuff, but I felt that it was necessary for this bit. I had originally planned on having Sherlock explain his survival/how he faked his death, but it didn't really fit the chapter. I'm sure it will come up later ,though, so don't fret. I might do some sort of one-shot to go into greater detail on the subject, but I'm not sure. Please review and tell me what you think!


	6. A Man Who Used to Be

Chapter Six: A Man Who Used to Be

John stood, just staring at Sherlock. He didn't seem to be capable of much else at the moment. Now that his anger had subsided John was able to fully take in Sherlock's current state. He was wearing the same suit as always, but it was dirty and wrinkled. There was a stale, musty smell about him, and it appeared that Sherlock hadn't been in the sun in years. Sherlock's hair was long and overgrown and although Sherlock had maintained the habit of shaving his face, there were cuts all over as if he had done it without a mirror. He was completely emaciated. John could see every bone, even through his many layers of clothing. He looked as if he hadn't slept in weeks. All of this was shocking; but it was nothing compared to the look in his eyes. Those eyes. They were not Sherlock's eyes. They didn't have that light in them anymore. They had lost that spark, that _Sherlock_. No, these were not Sherlock's eyes. They were the eyes of a madman.

It hurt John to see his friend like this. What had Sherlock's life been like these past years? His mind was not meant to be idle; it was a miracle he had managed to hang on for this long. _How did this become my life?_ thought John. It was all so strange. Sherlock had been dead. Now, he was alive; alive, but certainly not well.

Sherlock was looking at John now. He was sad. John could see it. Whether he was sad because his brilliant mind was waiting away, or because seeing John triggered something in him, John did not know. It didn't matter then. What mattered was getting Sherlock out of here. John bent down in an attempt to help Sherlock up. Sherlock bristled and brushed him off immediately.

"John, I am perfectly capable of standing up by myself. There is no need to coddle me. I am not a child," said Sherlock blankly. John stepped back. This wasn't his Sherlock, at least, not all of him. This was a new man, a man who had been through a terrible ordeal.

_Sherlock can't be alone, _thought John, _He needs people. He needs someone to keep him in check. He needs a challenge. _John wondered if this was what it was like those many years ago when Sherlock worked entirely on his own. Was this how he was during those dark ages Lestrade spoke of in quiet whispers? It seemed fairly plausible that Sherlock would have fallen into his old ways again, back to that armored shell where no one could touch him; he thought it would make him safe.

John watched as Sherlock shakily rose to his feet. He stepped forward to offer Sherlock his arm, but before he could, Sherlock stopped him. "I'm fine, John. I don't need anyone to help me." John knew this wasn't true, but didn't push it. He just wanted to get Sherlock out of this terrible place.

"Come on, Sherlock, let's go. They're waiting outside."

"I can't go with you," said Sherlock, "I already told them no. I'm staying here. I can't leave. I'm dead remember?"

"Sherlock, you can't stay here. Look at yourself! You're a mess. You are coming with me even if I have to drag you out by your hair," said John firmly.

"I told The Doctor I'm not going to help him. I don't do that anymore." John was confused.

"Don't do what anymore, Sherlock?"

"Help. I don't help. It only leads to trouble. You were right all those years ago. I need to stay out of things, slide under the radar."

"I never said that!" cried John. What on earth was Sherlock talking about?

"Yes, you did. You told me to stay out of the public eye; stay away from the big cases," answered Sherlock, "You were right. I should have listened to you. If I had we wouldn't be here right now." John shook his head.

"Stop it Sherlock. The past is the past. _We're here now._ That's what matters. You're alive, I'm alive. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly; they're all alive. That's what matters," said John, slowly, allowing time for every word to sink in. It appeared to have no effect on the tall, thin man before him. John sighed. Really, what had they come to? Was this all that was left of those days; a few newspaper clippings on the walls of a crappy apartment? It couldn't be. Their friendship had been so much more. Things like that don't just go away, John was sure of it. He looked at the shell of a man standing in front of him. Sherlock was in there somewhere. The real Sherlock, the one John had come to know. He was still there; he was just buried beneath his own defenses. John knew that if only he could get through to him, Sherlock would return in all of his grandeur.

"Sherlock," said John again, "Please, I'm begging you. You can't stay here, you just can't. Please, let's go, you don't have to help anyone. You just need to get out of this apartment. You can still be dead. Just, please be dead somewhere other than here." Sherlock listened this time, some part of John's plea must have gotten through to him.

Sherlock nodded and began walking towards the door, picking up his coat and scarf on the way out. He was so very much the same, but so very different from the man he once was. John knew this, and it hurt.

* * *

**A/N** I'm not so sure about this one. It was really hard for me to write, and I'm worried that I might be losing the integrity of the original characters. I've written like six chapters of exposition, and very little plot development has taken place. A lot of these event are very important for the story, but I realize that it might be boring. I sincerely hope that it isn't and that you enjoyed this chapter, despite my doubts about it. Please review! It really means a lot to me when people take the time to tell me what they think!


	7. Stairway to the Stars

Chapter 7: Stairway to the Stars

The Doctor was waiting in the hallway where John had left him. He smiled when he saw John and Sherlock finally emerge. "All sorted then are we?" he asked.

"I told you not to tell him," said Sherlock, eyeing The Doctor with deep dislike.

"I know you did, and I told you I needed your help," replied The Doctor, matter-of-factly, "Looks like neither of us got what we wanted." Sherlock didn't answer but continued to look daggers at The Doctor. John was hurt. He knew Sherlock hadn't been pleased to see him at first, but the past few minutes had led him to believe that Sherlock had changed his mind.

"Shall we go?" asked John, trying to break the tension. The Doctor looked up, seeming to remember John's presence.

"Yes, yes. We should go. Amy and Rory are waiting for us."

"The ginger with the big mouth and her stammering boyfriend?" spat Sherlock, "You're still dragging them around with you?" The Doctor suddenly became very serious. He spoke low and even.

"They are my friends. You don't insult them."

"I'm not insulting anyone. I was describing," the lofty tone Sherlock used was enough to make anyone want to hit him. John thought The Doctor was going to do just that, but he didn't.

"You were rude," said the Doctor, "Don't be rude to my friends." Before Sherlock could come up with some nasty retort John cut in.

"What exactly was it that you need Sherlock's help for anyways?" asked John.

"I need him to help me put together some things. There's been a lot of suspicious behavior lately. I need Sherlock to help me make sense of it; maybe even give me an answer."

"You keep saying 'suspicious behavior.' What does that mean?" inquired John. He felt as if The Doctor was keeping something from him.

"Well, John," said The Doctor, "this isn't the best place to discuss this. I'll be happy to bring you up to speed once we are inside the TARDIS." John nodded, he could wait a little longer. Honestly he didn't really care all that much about what The Doctor needed from them. He was too preoccupied with the reappearance of his best friend to be concerned with much else.

When they stepped out of the apartment building Sherlock immediately recoiled as his the sun burned his skin. His eyes were covered by his hands and he had retreated into the shade of the doorway._ Jeez, _thought John, _he really hasn't been outside_. It only took a few moments for Sherlock to adjust, however, and within another minute they were standing outside the door to the TARDIS.

"What is this?" asked Sherlock, his distaste evident.

"You haven't been in it yet?" asked John. Somehow he had assumed The Doctor had shown him already.

"Why would I want to go inside this dumb old box?" The Doctor gasped.

"She's not dumb!" he cried, "You just wait." He opened the door. John and Sherlock followed him inside.

For a split second, Sherlock looked shocked. Then it was gone and he was as composed as ever.

"What do you think?" asked The Doctor, eager for a reaction. However, he got no such thing, as all Sherlock said was:

"It's rather stuffy in here."

"That's it?" The Doctor was clearly disappointed.

"Well, that, and it's appears to be rather larger on the inside; rather an obvious observation, though. Hardly worth the time," said Sherlock, "I'm assuming that was more the reaction you expected."

"A bit lackluster, but you've been dead for three years so we'll let it slide," said The Doctor.

"Shouldn't you be freaking out right now?" asked John, "This defies every law of, well, anything. It's completely illogical."

"I disagree, John," said Sherlock, "This device appears t be highly logical. I don't quite understand how it works, exactly; but there is no doubt that there is a precise science to this. Besides, I came back from the dead. It will take more than a little blue box to shock me."

"Yeah, how did you manage that?" this question had been weighing on John since he first saw Sherlock on the couch.

"Faking my death?" John nodded. "You'd be surprised what you can get away with when your big brother takes tea with the queen."

"So, it was Mycroft? He was in on it?"

"Mycroft, Molly, and a few others."

"Molly? Molly knows?! She was devastated when she heard! She cried for months!"

"Yes, she turned out to be quite the actress. Who knew?" said Sherlock blandly.

"I still don't see how you did it. I saw you jump," said John. Sherlock smiled his old smile.

"You saw me jump. But did you see me hit the ground?"

"Yes, I, wait… I didn't… There was a cyclist. He crashed into me."

"Right on cue," finished Sherlock.

"Cue?"

"The phone. I threw my phone down after I hung up. That was the signal. I jumped, and the man on the bike crashed into you so you didn't see me land on the truck."

"What truck?"

"The one Mycroft set up. I had to jump off of the building so that Moriarty's snipers would call of the attack on you and the others. What they didn't know, was that my brother had scheduled for a mattress truck to drive by thirty seconds after I dropped my phone."

"But, I saw your body…"

"A body," explained Sherlock, "You saw _a_ body. Molly dressed it up to look like me. She bashed up the face a bit and put in some contacts. You had hit your head pretty hard, you weren't seeing clearly You believed I was dead because I told you that was what I was going to do." John still didn't quite understand him. Everything was completely plausible, but John was finding this turn of events difficult to accept.

"So Mycroft identified the body as you, and Molly drew up the death certificate?" asked John.

"Yes. Mycroft made sure there were no investigations and demanded that there would be no autopsy. You went to the funeral where that man was buried under my name."

"Wow," said John, "That's something."

"I will say it was rather brilliant, on my part."

"Let's not go that far. I wouldn't say allowing everyone who loves you to believe you died all that brilliant." Sherlock only shrugged.

"To each his own," said Sherlock, heading over to The Doctor. John followed behind him. Amy and Rory also noticed where John and Sherlock were going and went to stand next to The Doctor.

"Well, Doctor," said Sherlock, "I believe you owe us an explanation."

* * *

**A/N** We're getting there: slowly, but surely. As you noticed, this chapter features my theory of how Sherlock survived the fall. It took me a while to write this one because I've been skipping around and writing some of the much later chapters (I wrote the first draft of the last four or five last night). Nobody will be seeing those for quite a while though; they're at least twenty chapters from this point in the story. My weird writing schedule aside, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please review! I love getting your feedback (be it praise, suggestions, or constructive criticism). Thank you for reading!


	8. This Is the Thing

Chapter Eight: This Is the Thing

"Yes, an explanation, I believe I do owe you that," said The Doctor, "As I've told you many times, something very suspicious is going on. Amy, Rory, and I were on our way to the Jumping Galaxy (you should go sometimes, lovely planets) when the TARDIS came up with a report of some foreign substance. When I say foreign I don't just mean foreign to earth; I mean in all of time and space, I have never encountered it. Initially I wasn't too concerned, just a little curious. I had the sample examined further, and the results were not good." The Doctor paused for a moment, "This substance is extremely deadly. I don't mean that there is a chance that you will die if you come into contact with it. I mean that if this substance enters your bloodstream, you will die. I've spent many months analyzing this substance, and I have no idea of its origin, how it got to earth, or of any way to kill it. It appears to be indestructible. I think that the key to destroying it is to find out how it got to earth; we have to find who, or what brought it here. That is what I need you for. I haven't been able to put anything together, but I thought that the best detective in the world might be able to." Sherlock nodded.

"You're right. I probably could trace it for you, but as I said before I'm not going to help you," said Sherlock. The Doctor looked exasperated. John felt sorry for the man, and very embarrassed by the behavior of his friend.

"Don't you see? This will kill you! All of you! It doesn't seem to spread quickly, but it will spread eventually. If this substance isn't destroyed, humankind is in grave danger," said The Doctor, bordering on desperate.

"Not interested."

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock! Will you stop this? You have been nothing but rude since I found you. I know you've always been a little abrasive, but this is too much. Amy, Rory, and The Doctor have gone through great trouble to find us, the least we can do is at least take a look at the case," said John.

"It's hardly a case. This is work for a scientist; not the world's only consulting detective," replied Sherlock. This time it was Amy who spoke up:

"Listen here, Sherlock; if any old scientist could help us, we wouldn't be here. This substance has stumped The Doctor, and that isn't easy to do," she said, "You weren't even our first choice, you know. We've been to scientists already. We've consulted the greatest minds this world has ever known, and still, we have nothing! The Doctor, for whatever reason, insisted we come to you. And you know what? I don't really like you. You torture the ones who love you, you're rude and overly confident, and you aren't even as smart as you think." Sherlock simply raised an eyebrow, looking over Amy carefully.

"Oh? You were born in Scotland, and spent your early childhood there. You moved to England at a young age. How many physiatrists did you have; three, four? You changed your name from 'Amelia' to 'Amy' at some point in your childhood. It had something to do with The Doctor, which is why he calls you Amelia, not Amy like your husband does. You're restless; you can't stay in one place for too long. You're afraid of commitment. In fact, you're afraid of commitment in general, which is why you don't wear your wedding ring regularly. You feel suffocated by your husband, but couldn't bear to live him behind out of guilt, even though you'd rather travel alone," stated Sherlock matter-of-factly, "Did I miss anything?" Amelia stared at him, obviously not sure what to say; in the end she didn't have to, as it was Rory who walked over to Sherlock and punched him square in the jaw. John couldn't say he didn't deserve it.

"Don't say that about my wife," snapped Rory. He backed away from Sherlock and put his arm around Amy. The Doctor had been watching, not making any attempt to intervene, which struck John as odd.

"Doctor," began John, "This substance, can you tell us more about it?" The Doctor looked relieved to be back on topic.

"Yes, certainly," he said, "It appears to be man-made, at least. It contains high levels of fluorine and potassium as well as some sort of unknown element. The main thing, however, is that it is laced with a sort of poison. This is the deadly part. I don't recognize this particular poison from anywhere, and that probably means it's new. This substance isn't a bacteria or a virus. It is simply is absorbed through one's skin and from there, it can get into the bloodstream and spread throughout the body almost immediately."

"Does it kill you instantly, then?" asked John.

"No, no, I don't believe that it does. I think it takes a few weeks for the poison to fully settle. I'm assuming someone who had been exposed would suffer from a variety of other symptoms before the poison reached lethal capacity, though," said The Doctor.

"Well, Sherlock, what do you say?" asked John. Sherlock, appearing to have tuned everyone out all-together, appeared startled.

"Are you taking the case?" repeated John.

"No."

"No?"

"I'm not taking it. It's boring. I don't want it," said Sherlock, "It's almost silly; this strange substance. It sounds like one of those movies you used to watch, John; the really bad one."

"Which 'really bad one'? You thought all of my movies were bad," chuckled John.

"Well, they were," Sherlock smiled ever so slightly.

"Please, Sherlock. Let's just take this one. If it really is as easy as you think it won't take very long," pleaded John, sensing an opportunity. He felt bad for The Doctor and his companions after all he and Sherlock had put them through. And, he couldn't help but feel a little uneasy about what The Doctor had just told them. John couldn't quite place it, but there was something about the strange man that made John trust him.

Sherlock appeared to be raging some sort of inner battle. At long last, he came to a conclusion.

"Yes, alright, fine. I'll take the case."

* * *

**A/N** I think we're finally done with all of these long winded explanations. Honestly, I hate writing these bits; I want to get into story already! I'm really excited about some of the stuff that should come about in a few chapters or so. I hope this wasn't too boring for you and I promise it will pick up soon! Please review!


	9. Tea for Two

(Tea for Two)

The TARDIS appeared to have a fully equipped lab. How that was possible John didn't know, and he didn't bother. Everything that had happened to day had been fairly impossible.

Sherlock was bent over a microscope, carefully examining the sample that The Doctor had provided him. His work was efficient as ever, but the passion was gone from his eyes. Amy sat behind him, watching him work. She looked fascinated. John couldn't blame her. Sherlock was brilliant. He went over to Amy and offered her a cup of tea. She said laughed and said she'd get tea for both of them. When she laughed, Sherlock looked up from his work, "Could you two flirt somewhere else?"

"I was offering her tea!" said John, but Sherlock had already gone back to his work and didn't seem to hear him.

"Let's go get that tea," whispered Amy. John followed her off to the kitchen. They walked through quite a few long hallways before they got to the door they were looking for. John was amazed by the size of this place. It appeared to have no limits.

The kitchen was much smaller than John had expected it to be. Also, it looked like a kitchen you would find in a cottage on the countryside; not in whatever the TARDIS was. There were no windows, but the room appeared to be sunlit. Amy put a kettle on the stove. Then, she turned to John.

"Is he always like that when he works?" she asked.

"More or less," answered John, "Usually he's much worse. I'm surprised you distracted him like that. Normally it would take an atomic bomb to pull him out of his work."

"Really? I feel bad now. What's he like when he's 'worse'."

"Oh, I just mean he's usually even more into it. Talking out loud, yelling at things that don't exist. He used to be much more alive when he worked," said John sadly.

"I noticed that," said Amy, "He seems rather cold." John chuckled a bit.

"He was always a bit standoffish if that's what you mean," he said. Amy shook her head.

"No, although I did notice that as well. I meant that he seems kind of dead, you know? Like a fire that's gone out and nobody's bothered to relight." Her words described this new Sherlock perfectly. John smiled a sad little smile.

"Yeah," he said, "You should have known the old Sherlock. He still had the same brilliant mind, but he was also so innocent. He was like a child; the way he would get excited over a case..." John trailed off as memories of the old Sherlock flooded over him. Amy watched him silently from across the table. The whistling of the kettle was what finally brought John back to the room.

Amy hurried to switch off the stove. She got two cups out of the cupboard and set them down. She turned to John, "Should I get one for Sherlock?"

"No, he won't drink it while he's working," said John. Amy nodded, getting two tea bags out of a box in a drawer. She poured the water over them in the mugs. She handed one of them to John.

"Do want any cream or sugar?" she had opened the fridge and was going through it; "Actually, we appear to be out of cream. Do you want milk instead?"

"No thank you. Black is fine," said John.

"Okay," said Amy, closing the fridge and sitting down across from him. The two sat in silence for a few minutes, waiting for their tea to brew. Amy was looking down at her left hand, playing with her wedding band. She looked up at John. "How did he know all of those things about me?"

"Hm?" John realized she was referring to the rundown Sherlock had given her earlier. "Oh, I don't know really. He notices things; little things that anyone else would look right past. He notices them, and then he connects them."

"But how? How did he know about the psychiatrists and The Doctor?" she asked.

"When I first met him he figured out my sister was a drunk by looking at her phone," said John.

"How?"

"There were scratches around the charging dock. He said you never saw those marks on a sober person's phone," explained John. Amy looked amazed.

"Really?" she asked, "Just from the phone?"

"That's not even the most brilliant thing he's done. He can read people like books. He notices everything."

"Wow," breathed Amy, taking a sip from her tea, "That's something."

"It really is," said John. He missed those days. He wanted that Sherlock back. The one he had found in those crappy apartments wasn't his Sherlock anymore. Amy was looking at him again.

"Why is your jumper covered in sick?" she asked crinkling her nose slightly. John looked down. He had completely forgotten. This morning seemed so long ago.

"I had a patient who threw up on me."

"Gross," said Amy, "Do you want me to get you something of Rory's to wear? He won't mind."

"That would be great," said John with a smile. Amy smiled back and left the room. When she returned she was carrying a lovely light blue sweater.

"I got it for Rory last Christmas," she explained, "but he never wore it. I thought it would look nice on you."

"Thank you," said John, removing his soiled jumper and pulling on the one Amy handed him.

"I was right. It does look nice. It really brings oh your eyes."

"Oh, is that right?" asked John, feeling a little embarrassed. Amy smiled, nodding.

"Aren't you going to drink your tea?" she asked gesturing to the mug in front of John.

"Oh, yeah," he said, "Of course I am." He took a sip. It was very good tea; in fact, it was the best he had ever had. "This is amazing? Where did you get it?"

"India, about a hundred years ago," she said.

"No, really. Where did you get it?" asked John.

"I really got it in India a hundred years ago," said Amy, "The Doctor took me there on my birthday."

"But not a hundred years ago."

"Yes a hundred years ago," said Amy. _Why was she lying to him?_

"You couldn't have been there a hundred years ago," said John, "You'd be dead, now."

"That's what the TARDIS is for," chuckled Amy.

"What?" John was confused.

"It's a time machine. I can go anywhere I like."

"Are you pulling my leg?" John asked, sure that she was.

"No. I'm dead serious. That's what TARDIS stands for: Time and Relative Dimension in Space, or something like that."

"Wow," said John, "Could this day get any stranger?" he said, mostly to himself. Amy smiled at him from across the table.

"Should we go check on Sherlock?" she asked.

* * *

**A/N** Not much happens in this chapter as far as plot or anything; but there are some very important moments that will come up later. A quick shout out to michlovescookies281 and Halfpence who reviewed the last chapter. To Halfpence; I hope that the dialogue was easier to follow this time. Thanks for reviewing!


	10. Crazy She Calls Me

Chapter 10: Crazy She Calls Me

Sherlock looked distraught. He was pacing back and forth mumbling to himself. "But, that's not possible," he kept saying. "Impossible, it's impossible…"

"What's impossible?" asked John, stepping into the lab. Sherlock looked up at him.

"Were you not listening to anything I said?" he asked John.

"No, Sherlock. I was in another room," said John. He smiled; at least some of Sherlock was the same.

"Oh."

"Yeah, so what's impossible?" asked John again.

"Well," began Sherlock, "This substance is obviously not a pure substance. It is also definitely man-made I've tried to break the bonds between the various atoms, but I can't. It is completely seamless. I don't know what type of bonds they are; but they are nothing that I've ever seen before. This substance appears to be indestructible."

"How can it be indestructible?" asked John, "Surely you could break the bonds somehow."

"But I can't. I've done everything I could possibly think of. Temperature, pressure, brute force; nothing has had any effect," said Sherlock, "It doesn't make any sense. Even the poison is impossible to extract."

"There has to be something, though," said John, "Some weakness."

"Well, of course. I just haven't found it yet. None of this equipment is advanced enough," said Sherlock. John looked about the lab. How was this equipment 'not advanced enough?' There were things in this room that he had never seen in any of the labs that he had been in. Some of it seemed to be completely alien. _It probably is_, thought John.

Amy spoke up, "Maybe that's the key," she said, "Maybe that's why it's so deadly." Sherlock have her a sideways glance. Suddenly his eyes widened.

"That's it!" he cried.

"What's 'it'?" asked John.

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock was bursting with excitement.

"No, Sherlock, it isn't. Not everyone is as brilliant as you, remember?" said John.

"That's the key!" he cried, gesturing madly, "That's why it's so deadly!"

"Oh, my, God!" burst Amy, "Will you just tell us already!"

"It will only break apart when it enters the blood stream! Something in the blood triggers a reaction!"

"How, though?" asked John, "That doesn't make any sense. How can it only break apart in blood?"

"I don't know, but isn't it brilliant? Oh, we've got a genius on our hands!" said Sherlock, rubbing his hands together. Amy gave him a strange look.

"You think someone did this on purpose? You think that someone is intentionally spreading this substance?" she asked Sherlock.

"Of course they are. People don't make things like this on accident. It's too perfect. Someone has created this with the intention of spreading it!"

"But what if they catch it?" asked Amy.

"Obviously they have a cure," answered Sherlock with a face that clearly said she should have known that already.

"And you didn't want to take this case," said John, smirking.

"Shut up, John."

"I still don't get how it works, though," said Amy, "Why is it so deadly when it breaks apart?"

"Think about it. Just think for a minute. How do you think it works?" lead Sherlock, watching Amy closely.

"It… Oh, I don't know… Maybe it… No…" stammered Amy. Sherlock was very close to her now.

"You do know. Come on, _think_," he urged. John smiled. He had been in Amy's position plenty of times. Suddenly it appeared that Amy understood, her eyes widened.

"The blood, it breaks down only when it enters the bloodstream. That's why it's deadly. It's perfectly safe when it's one substance because the others keep the poison from reacting. When it breaks apart, there is nothing to keep the poison in check!"

"Yes! See what happens when you think?" said Sherlock, smiling ever so slightly.

"That's brilliant!" said Amy. Sherlock didn't answer. Instead, he turned around and pulled a blade from his pocket.

"What are you doing?" asked Amy, looking concerned.

"Testing my theory."

"What? You can't put that in your bloodstream! It will kill you!" she cried.

"Do you think I don't know that? Of course I'm not going to put it in my body. I'm going to cut myself and put it in my blood, in a petri dish," said Sherlock as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Oh," said Amy.

"Yes," was all Sherlock said in response. He sent the knife across his wrist.

His blood poured out rapidly as he held his arm over the dish.

"Oh, God, Sherlock!" cried John, "Was that necessary?"

"Yes," said Sherlock calmly, "Would someone get me some dressings?"

Amy jumped up and hurried out of the room. A few seconds later she was back carrying a large first aid kit. She pulled Sherlock into a chair and cradled his bleeding arm. Sherlock had gone rather pale from this intense loss of blood. Amy quickly cleaned his cut and wrapped it tightly in a clean white bandage. Sherlock was still losing a lot of blood and the bandage had already turned red. Amy took another wrap and tied it tightly around his elbow. The bleeding seemed to subside a little, but not entirely.

"You're going to need stitches for that," she said.

"Yes, it seems that I will," replied Sherlock.

"You didn't have to cut so deep," said Amy. Sherlock only shrugged. Amy rolled her eyes, "You're crazy, you are."

"Probably," smiled Sherlock.

* * *

**A/N **Again, I apologize for the slow pace. I've tried to speed it up but I just can't. I think that once we get into the case a little more I will be able to skip around a bit. This story is going to be a lot longer than I originally planned it to be. Oh, well! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. And I have a quick question for you all: who do you ship? I'm just curious. Personally, I can be okay with most ships as long as they are well written (obviously I have my favourites, as well). Please review!


	11. Just Friends

Chapter Eleven: Just Friends

John smiled. For a second, he had seen his old Sherlock again. His eyes had flickered with that old excitement; he had smiled, for real.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"asked Sherlock, giving John a look.

"Hm? What? Oh, um, should I call The Doctor?" stammered John.

"Yes, that seems appropriate. You can get the other one too."

"Okay," said John, exiting the room.

Sherlock and Amy sat in silence for a moment.

Amy looked at Sherlock, "So, how long were you two – you know – before…" she asked.

"How long were we what?" said Sherlock.

"You know – seeing each other."

"Everyone always thinks that," said Sherlock shaking his head, "I don't know where they get that idea."

"So, you two aren't…?'

"No. God, no. John is my friend. We're just friends," answered Sherlock.

"Okay, cool. That's cool," said Amy. Sherlock looked at her curiously.

"You don't fancy John, do you?"

"What?!" gasped Amy, "Oh my God, no. Not at all! I was just curious."

"I didn't think you did. The Doctor then?" asked Sherlock.

"I thought you were some sort of genius, can't you figure it out?" teased Amy.

"No…" contemplated Sherlock, "I'm really not so good at this sort of thing. It doesn't come as naturally."

"Well, I'll have you know that I fancy Rory," said Amy, matter-of-factly. Sherlock shook his head.

"No you don't. It's obvious that you don't feel that way about him. It's not The Doctor, then?"

"Why do you care?"

"I'm bored." Sherlock fidgeted with the bandages on his arm. Amy watched him.

"What are you going to do, now that you aren't dead anymore?" she asked.

"I never was dead," said Sherlock blankly. It was then that John re-entered with The Doctor and Rory following behind him.

"Well, John says you've got something?" asked The Doctor eagerly.

"Did he? Interesting," said Sherlock.

"Oh, just tell him, Sherlock," moaned John, "Honestly."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The substance only breaks apart in blood, and probably only in human blood. It breaks apart and the poison is released."

The Doctor thought for a moment, "Do we know who did it?"

"No. Not yet," Sherlock looked irritated. "It's obviously manmade. Whoever made it did so intentionally, and has a cure."

"How do you know that?" asked Rory. John could see that he had not yet forgiven Sherlock for his behavior earlier.

"Because, Rudy, I observe," said Sherlock.

"_Rory_. My name is Rory, not 'Rudy,'" corrected Rory.

"I really don't care."

"Oh, both of you stop it!" burst The Doctor, "Rory, I expect better from you. Sherlock, I- well, I don't know you all that well, but I expect you to be civil towards my friends."

"Might want to bring you expectations down a bit, Doctor," John smirked.

"I'm sure Sherlock is perfectly capable of a nice, civil conversation with some other humans," said The Doctor.

"Nope," John laughed a little. Sherlock glared at him.

"I am too," he said.

"Sure you are."

Sherlock straightened himself up and turned to The Doctor. "I plan on staying on this case. You obviously need my help. However, I do not follow orders from anyone but myself. I expect full access to any recourses you might have; and you must tell no one of my involvement."

The Doctor thought for a moment. He looked at Amy and Rory. Rory shook his head. Amy nudged her husband in the ribs.

"You need him, Doctor," she said. The Doctor ran his hands through his hair and sighed.

"Okay then. Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, you've got yourself a case."

Sherlock didn't even acknowledge The Doctor; he was busy examining his blood under the microscope. John answered for the both of them.

"Thank you, Doctor," he said. Pulling The Doctor aside a bit he added, "Thank you for bringing him back to me."

"Not at all, John," said The Doctor, patting John's shoulder, "It was my pleasure."

* * *

**A/N** Okay, so I've been suffering from some lovely writer's block of late. This chapter was hell for me to write. It really ends up being a bit of a throw away chapter. Somebody should send me some prompts or something to get my brain working again. Also, I do have another story up. It's super short and I wrote it at like three in the morning. You can check that out if you want. Please review and send me some prompts or suggestions!


	12. For All We Know

Chapter Twelve: For All We Know

Sherlock spent another couple of hours bent over various lab equipment. John watched from the background. When Sherlock appeared to be finished John went over to him.

"Where do you plan on staying?" asked John.

"I have an apartment."

"No, you have a hideout. You aren't going back there," said John. "You could go see Mrs. Hudson; 221 B is still available. She refused to rent it out to anyone else."

"I can't go to Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock, "I'm dead, remember?"

John sighed, "Yeah, I do. You're going to have to tell them sometime."

"No I won't. I've already said it's better for them to believe me dead."

"No it isn't, Sherlock! They deserve to know!" cried John.

"Not today they don't. I'll tell them eventually. I just can't do it now," said Sherlock. John understood. Sherlock had been through a lot as well.

"Okay," said John, not wanting to push Sherlock away, "I get it."

"Good."

"You can stay with me tonight," offered John. For some reason he felt nervous asking this.

"That would be good." Sherlock picked up his scarf and coat from the chair he had thrown them on. "Shall we go?"

"Yeah, yeah, we can go." John was happy. It almost felt like old times. Almost.

They left the lab and walked back into the control room. The Doctor, Amy, and Rory were all sitting on the floor playing a game of cards. The Doctor looked up when they walked in.

"Oh, you're leaving?" he asked.

"Yeah," said John, "I hope that's alright."

"It's alright; perfectly alright," said The Doctor, "I'll just pop in if I have anything for you, then?"

"Yeah, I guess," said John, scratching his head, "Do you need an address?"

"Nope," said The Doctor, "and if you need anything from me just call."

"Can I get your number?" asked John.

"I don't have a number."

"Then how do I call you?"

"Just call. You know, 'Hey, Doctor!'" said The Doctor. John didn't quite understand what The Doctor meant, but he didn't bother asking him to clarify it. It seemed that The Doctor knew how to find them, at least.

Sherlock had been standing over Amy's shoulder, no doubt checking whether she had the winning hand. "Thank you, Doctor. Now, if you don't mind, John and I will be going," he said. John nodded in agreement. The Doctor waved as they exited the TARDIS.

* * *

"It's dark out!" exclaimed John when he and Sherlock were outside.

"Yes," said Sherlock.

"We've been here all day."

"It appears so."

"Shit. I had a lunch date," said John. Sherlock gave him a look.

"Why do you insist on dating such forgettable women?" he asked.

"What do you mean? They're perfectly lovely," said John, defending his choices in dating.

"Oh sure, they're nice. They're also forgettable," said Sherlock.

"Just because you can never remember them…"

"Neither can you. You had a lunch date and you completely forgot it."

"There were special circumstances, Sherlock. Like, oh, I don't know, _you coming back from the dead_."

"Perhaps… Although, you did once forget about a date because you were watching a game show," said Sherlock.

"I don't remember that," huffed John.

"I do," said Sherlock loftily. He pulled up the collar of his coat and started off into the night. John followed quickly behind.

"We'll need a cab," said John.

"Obviously," said Sherlock as he hailed one. The cab stopped and the two climbed inside.

They rode in silence. John couldn't help but smile when he thought about all the other times they had done this; just sat in a cab. It's funny the things you start to miss when someone dies. It's rarely the big things. You miss the little things, like sugar spilt on the counter and shoes left too close to the door. You miss the silent cab rides home. _Stop it John,_ thought John,_ You don't have to miss this anymore. He's back. _

It took longer to get to John's flat than he thought it would. When the cab stopped John got out and thanked the driver, giving him a generous tip. He always tipped his cabbies, just in case it kept them off murder for a while. Sherlock was out of the cab immediately. He went up to the door and waited impatiently for John to open it.

"I'll need a key," said Sherlock.

"So you plan on staying?" asked John.

"For now. I have a case to work on," said Sherlock.

"Yeah," said John as he opened the door. John began climbing the stairs to his floor. Sherlock followed slowly, obviously observing John's building. John reached his door and opened it. Sherlock wrinkled his nose when he entered.

"It smells," he said.

"Yeah, I guess. Still not as bad as burnt kidneys," said John, looking around his own apartment. It was a bit of a mess. He had clothes on the floor and his couch was covered all sorts of rubbish.

"Rather bare, as well," continued Sherlock, looking at the lone couch and coffee table.

"Yeah, I guess," said John again, "I don't mind though."

"I do."

"It's not your flat, though, is it?"

"I'm living here," said Sherlock.

"You've been here all of five minutes," John had to try very hard not to smile.

"I'm bored already."

"Oh, shut up and go to bed."

"I'll take the couch," said Sherlock.

"Yes, you will," said John, "and no bloody experiments in the night. My landlord is not nearly as understanding as Mrs. Hudson."

"Yes, yes…" said Sherlock, clearing off the couch by simply shoving John's things on the floor.

"Sherlock?"

"What?"

"The case… Who made the poison? Why would someone do that?" asked John.

"I- I'm not sure. There was obviously a lot of preparation so it has to be more than just murder. It has to be organized. It takes a lot of money to develop a biological weapon, even more so when it's one of that complexity," mused Sherlock.

"It's just weird, though… All of that thought and money, just to kill people."

"I suppose you could say that. It is weird. It isn't new though. People have been doing it for millions of years. We get bored, we want something more, and we find a way to get it. My dear old brother supervises that sort of thing."

"It just seems extreme, that's all," said John.

"Of course it is; but it's effective. Just look World War II. How much did the U.S. put into that stupid bomb?" said Sherlock.

"You're saying this is some sort of war?"

"No, I'm just making a point." Sherlock took off his shoes and lay down on John's couch. "Goodnight, John."

"Goodnight, Sherlock. Don't burn the house down before I wake up."

* * *

**A/N** Okay, the next chapter will be moving a lot faster. Thanks for reading this far, I know it can get a bit boring. I'd love to get some requests for some other stories to do on the side if you have any. Please review!


	13. The First Murder

Chapter 13: The First Murder

John was woken by his alarm clock. He rolled out of bed, taking half the blankets with him. He slid his slippers on and walked to the kitchen. Something important had happened the other day; he just couldn't remember what. John wasn't what you would call a morning person. He walked through the sitting room into the kitchen and began to make himself a cup of coffee.

"I'll have one too, if you're offering," said a voice. John dropped his mug as he turned around. _How the hell did I forget that?_ he thought. There was Sherlock; still very much alive, sitting at John's kitchen table reading the paper.

"Um, yeah, I'll get you some…" mumbled John getting another mug. He waited for the coffee to brew, staring awkwardly at Sherlock across the room. It was so strange. He had spent three years believing this impossible, yet here he was; making his best friend coffee. When the coffee was ready he poured it into the mugs and added sugar to both of them.

"Why did you do that?" asked Sherlock, looking at the mugs in John's hands.

"What do you mean? You wanted a coffee," said John.

"No, why did you put sugar in yours?"

"What?"

"You don't take sugar in your coffee," said Sherlock. "Why would you put it in?"

"Oh, hm," said John looking into the mug in his left hand, "I guess I forgot. You remember that I don't like sugar in my coffee?'

"Of course I do," said Sherlock, turning the page of his paper. "You remembered mine."

"I guess I did," said John, handing Sherlock a mug. Sherlock took it and nodded his thanks.

John sat down at the table with Sherlock. It felt so strange. Why did it feel so strange? They had done this hundreds of times. John laughed a bit. This was all so ridiculous. Sherlock looked at him.

"What?" asked Sherlock, "Why are you laughing?"

"Nothing, it's just odd, you know? Us sitting here, just like old times."

"Not really," said Sherlock, turning away. "Do you have to work today?"

"Yes, but only a half day. I get half days on Friday," said John.

"Okay. I used your laptop last night. I hope you don't mind."

"Of course you did."

"Do you mind?'

"Did I before?"

"Yes."

"Then, I guess I do mind. You aren't going to stop though," said John.

"I might. You really haven't gotten a new computer?"

"What's wrong with my computer?"

"It was already a year old when I met you," said Sherlock. John just shrugged.

"I have to go to work," he said. Sherlock waved him off.

"Fine, fine… I'll be here," said Sherlock. John left the room to go get dressed.

He came back downstairs to find Sherlock on the couch using John's laptop.

"Goodbye, Sherlock," said John as he walked out the door. Sherlock didn't seem to hear him.

* * *

John arrived at work a little later than normal. He was rushing to the elevator when someone called his name.

"John! John!" It was Calvin Simmons; he worked in urgent care.

John turned, "Oh, hello Calvin. I'm so sorry but I can't really talk now." John began to walk away.

"Watson, you're going to want to hear this," said Calvin eagerly.

"Well, what is it?" sighed John.

"You know that lady you had the other day? The fat one?"

"Yes, Calvin. Her name was Mrs. Tharpe," said John.

"Yeah, whatever," said Calvin, "She's dead."

"Dead?" John was shocked. "She didn't seem that sick…"

"Yeah, she came into urgent care and died before we could even figure out what was wrong with her," said Calvin.

"Wow," said John, scratching his head, "Have you figured out what it was?"

"No, not yet. She was kind of loopy, though. She probably mixed her medicines or something."

"Are you doing an autopsy?" asked John.

"I'm not sure," said Calvin, "You should ask Hooper about that; it's here area."

"I guess. Well, I have to go or I'll be late," said John. Calvin gave him a wave as he departed.

_Dead_, thought John, _She's really dead. I can't believe that. She was in my office yesterday… I didn't think she would die…_

John reached the third floor and checked in. It was even busier today than it had been yesterday. There was new receptionist had taken Amy's place. Evidently, she hadn't really needed the job. John was a little disappointed, but he hadn't expected to see here today. He went out to greet his first patient.

* * *

Five hours and twelve patients later, John punched out and went home. When he entered his flat Sherlock was still on the couch.

"Did you get up at all while I was gone?" asked John.

"Not really," replied Sherlock. "You don't have a cigarette, do you?"

"No, I don't smoke," said John.

"I know, I was just asking," said Sherlock.

"I thought you didn't smoke either."

"Picked it back up. There isn't much else to do when you're in hiding," said Sherlock. "We all fall back on old habits. I see you've been using your cane again."

"What? You haven't even seen me with it," said John.

"Your hand; it's got blisters on the palm."

"Of course it does," said John, rolling his eyes. Good old Sherlock, noticing the most insignificant things.

"I'm flattered, really," said Sherlock with a smirk.

"Why? You didn't have anything to do with it."

"Didn't I?" Sherlock said, closing John's laptop. "So how was work?"

"A patient of mine died yesterday," said John.

"How?"

"Nobody knows. She started coughing up blood in my room and I guess she died a few hours later." Sherlock's eyes widened.

"Have they done an autopsy?"

"Not yet. I'm sure they will though," said John. Sherlock jumped up off the couch and began to put on his coat. "What are you doing?" asked John.

"Going to the hospital," said Sherlock.

"Why?"

"Because, John, this is it!" cried Sherlock.

"This is what?"

"The first murder," answered Sherlock.


	14. Rebel at Work

Chapter 14: Rebel at Work

John followed Sherlock as he rushed out the door and hailed a cab. _What the hell were they doing?_ thought John. When a car pulled up they both got in. Sherlock gave the driver their destination and then turned to John.

"You have questions," said Sherlock.

"Yes," said John, "Yes I do."

"Well, go on."

"Why do you think she was the 'first murder'? And what do you mean by murder?"

"The poison, John. She was killed by the poison," said Sherlock. "She's the first one."

"But how do you know it was the poison? It could have been any number of things. She was constantly sick; she probably took too much medication," said John.

"No, they would have known if it had been a simple overdose. She was sick all of the time because the poison was being released. It reached lethal capacity in your office."

"Okay, but how do you know for sure that it was the poison? You have no reason to jump to that conclusion," argued John.

"Don't I? She had been coming in for what? A week, maybe two? Her symptoms started out small; a stomach ache, a headache, a slight fever, a cough. Nothing to abnormal, it would have just seemed she was a bit of a hypochondriac. She wasn't; all of her symptoms were entirely legitimate. She has to have been poisoned," said Sherlock.

"Okay, but you don't know anything about her. You only just found out about the poison yesterday. It seems a bit soon for people to be dying from it."

"Quite the contrary, John. The Doctor had been courting me for over two weeks before he came to you; plenty of time for this woman to be exposed to it. We've already determined that it takes time to spread, and guessed that one would suffer some sort of reaction to it during that period. Now is the perfect time for people to start dying," explained Sherlock.

"You could still be wrong, you know," said John.

"Yes, but I'm not," said Sherlock. John sighed. There was no point in arguing.

The cab pulled up in front of Saint Bart's and John and Sherlock got out. Sherlock was about to go inside when John stopped him.

"Aren't you dead?" he asked.

"Damn it! I forgot," cursed Sherlock.

"You forgot you were dead?"

"So did you."

"Well, yeah, but I'm not you," said John, "So, what do we do now?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Tell Molly," he said, "ask her to clear out the morgue. Then, come back with a stretcher and a body bag. I'll hide somewhere out here." John nodded and went into the building; glancing back to find that Sherlock had vanished.

John made it to the morgue with minimal recognition. It was rather dark, and much colder than the rest of the hospital. John pulled his jacket a little tighter around himself. Molly was easy enough to find; she was cleaning off some microscope slides in the lab. John suddenly realized he hadn't spoken to Molly for about a year. He thought for a moment before clearing his throat. Molly started.

"John," she said, setting down the slides. "How have you been?"

"Good. I've been good," said John, "Um, yesterday, well…" John trailed off. Molly gave him a curious look.

"Why are you here, John?" she asked.

"Well, um, you already know this, apparently, but Sherlock's alive," said John. Soon Molly was hugging him.

"Oh, John! I wanted to tell you. I really did! I promised him that I wouldn't. I'm so sorry, John," cried Molly. John patted her on the back a few times.

"It's fine, Molly. It really is. I know how Sherlock can be. I'm not mad at you. If I'm mad at anyone it's him."

"Don't be mad at him, John," said Molly, "He's been through a lot."

John didn't really feel like getting into this right now. "Molly, I'm here because Sherlock is outside the hospital. He needs to examine a body. Could you clear out the morgue for him? Maybe even the lab?" asked John.

"Yes, I can do that. Most people left already anyway. You know, it being Friday and all," said Molly.

"Thanks," said John, "and, um, can I have a body bag and a stretcher?"

"Why?" Molly looked a little confused.

"Sherlock wanted it. I'm assuming it's to get him inside the hospital."

"Oh, yeah, probably," said Molly. "I'll go get that for you," she added, leaving the room.

Molly returned a few moments later with the bag and cart John had requested. "Thanks, Molly," said John as he wheeled the cart out of the morgue. John made his way out of the hospital through the least used route; he hoped to be seen by as few people as possible. He made it to the front door without encountering anyone but a few flustered nurses. John brought the cart around the corner and began to look for Sherlock.

"John," said Sherlock's voice, "Over here." John turned; there was Sherlock, hiding behind some bins.

"I've got the stretcher and the body bag. What exactly were you planning to do with it?" asked John.

"I'm going to get inside the bag, get on the stretcher, and then you'll wheel me into the morgue," said Sherlock, already stepping into the bag.

"Okay, yeah, I thought that was the plan…"

"I would assume so," said Sherlock as he hopped onto the cart. Once he was lying down he asked John to finish zipping him up. "Leave a little bit open so I can breathe."

"Really? I was planning on suffocating you," said John.

"Sarcasm?" asked Sherlock.

"Yes," said John as he zipped up the bag. Sherlock went limp and John took him back around the corner and through the door.

Molly was waiting for them. It appeared that she had successfully cleared out the general area. She came over to help unzip Sherlock's bag. Sherlock emerged rather red in the face. "I forgot how uncomfortable those are," he said as he adjusted his scarf.

"What?" asked John.

"Never mind it, John. Hello, Molly."

"Sherlock," said Molly, quickly turning away. "John said you wanted to examine a body?"

"Yes, a Mrs. Tharpe? I believe she would have been brought in yesterday," said Sherlock.

"Oh, her… She's scheduled for an autopsy tomorrow, I believe."

"That seems a little late for an autopsy," said John.

"It is later than we would normally do one," said Molly, "But her husband was reluctant to let us do it."

"Ah," said John. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Molly, will you get her for us," he said. Molly nodded and hurried out of the room. She returned with Mrs. Tharpe's rather large body.

"She wasn't too much to look at, was she?" said Molly quietly. John chuckled a little.

"No, she wasn't," he said.

"Will you two shut up?" snapped Sherlock, "I'm working." John and Molly stopped talking and watched Sherlock.

Sherlock was circling Mrs. Tharpe, muttering to himself. He picked up her hands and examined her fingernails. The nails had gone yellow and brittle. Sherlock then got a scalpel from the counter and made a small incision down her wrist. He caught the blood in a vial and placed it on the table. He also cut off a bit of her skin and put it in a petri dish. He then continued to examine her; taking note of some swelling on the back of her neck. He moved down to her chest where he stopped. There appeared to be a large amount of bruising along her ribcage.

"They tried to resuscitate her?" asked Sherlock.

"I guess. They thought it was a heart condition at first; you know, because of her weight," said Molly.

"But it wasn't a heart condition, was it?"

"No. We don't know what it is. I mean, we think it was an overdose or something. The autopsy should confirm that," said Molly.

"Nope. The autopsy will show the presence of some alien substance in her blood. This substance made its way to the brain stem and caused deadly inflammation. That is your cause of death," said Sherlock.

"What alien substance?" asked Molly.

"A poison; some sort of lethal compound. I've been asked to investigate it," said Sherlock.

"Don't get too close to the body, Molly, and avoid handling any fluids directly," added John. "As far as we can tell the substance spreads through direct contact with the skin."

"Wear gloves and you'll be fine," said Sherlock. "John's being overly dramatic."

"Um, okay," answered Molly. "Do you need anything else from me?"

"No, nothing. Thank you, Molly," said Sherlock picking up the body bag. "John?"

"Coming," replied John. He went over to Sherlock and helped zip him into the bag and get on the stretcher. "Thanks for the help," called John as he wheeled Sherlock out of the morgue. Molly waved as they left.

"Feel free to come back anytime," she said, watching the two depart.

* * *

**A/N** Sorry it took a little longer than normal to get this one up. I've been really busy with school lately. I hope you're all enjoying the story. Please review!


	15. The Best Thing for You

Chapter Fifteen: The Best Thing for You

By the time John and Sherlock got back to the apartment darkness had fallen. John set about making dinner for the two of them and Sherlock collapsed on the couch with a cigarette between his fingers. He just lay there, twirling it under the light. John watched him for a while. Sherlock, his best friend, completely lost. _Not completely_, corrected John. There was still some of him there; it just wasn't all of him. All of that insanity and energy that the old Sherlock had possessed was now hidden away. His eyes were dull and his face was lined. Sherlock pulled a lighter from his pocket and held it to his cigarette. He lay, smoking on the couch, while John turned back to the pot of noodles on the stove. It really was amazing what three years could do to a person.

When the pasta was ready John set the table and called Sherlock to dinner. Sherlock put out his cigarette and walked over to the kitchen to sit with John. John had put a very large serving on Sherlock's plate. Sherlock's nose crinkled. "I'm not hungry," he said, pushing the plate away ever so slightly.

"I don't care," said John, "You're completely emaciated. There is no way you are going without dinner."

"I don't eat when I'm on a case, John."

"You do now," said John in a way the clearly said that this was the end of it. As if to further prove how much the man had changed; Sherlock began to eat.

John took a bite of his pasta; it was rubbish. He grimaced and looked at Sherlock who was quickly making his way through it. It was robotic, the way Sherlock ate. He didn't seem to be aware of anything but the fork rising to his mouth. John didn't say anything; rubbish or not, Sherlock needed the calories. He cleared up his own plate and went to go watch TV.

When Sherlock had finished his dinner he went to join John on the couch. The two sat there for a long time, just watching the news. Eventually, Sherlock broke the silence. "When I was –um- gone… Did anybody care? I mean- did they miss me?" he asked, looking down. John rolled his eyes.

"Yes. Of course they did, Sherlock. Do you really think you're that insignificant?" said John. Sherlock just shrugged.

"Did they believe me? You know, what I told you at the end, that I'm a fake…"

"Some people did. Not anyone who knew you did though. Lestrade had a complete breakdown. He tried to quit his job. He blamed himself. Well, he blamed Sally too. He fired her, actually."

"He should have fired Anderson," said Sherlock. John chuckled.

"He tried."

At this, Sherlock smiled. "I think we should tell Lestrade. I think that maybe he should know…"

"Know that you aren't dead?"

"Yes. I want to tell him. He could be useful," said Sherlock.

"What about the others?" asked John, "Do you plan to tell them?"

"Mrs. Hudson… I want to tell her; I just don't think it's necessary," said Sherlock.

"What the hell do you mean by 'necessary?'" asked John, "Of course it's bloody necessary. You have to tell her, Sherlock. She's been torn to bits."

"Exactly!" said Sherlock, "I've hurt her already. I don't need to put her through anything else. I don't need her for anything. I never have to see her again. Why should I tell her?"

"Because she's your friend and you care about her and she needs to know. Trust me, Sherlock, she needs to know," said John. Sherlock looked like he was struggling.

"I've made a mess of everything," said Sherlock at last.

"Yes, you have," agreed John, "And now, you get to put things right." Sherlock slumped back into the cushions. He held out his hand.

"Give me your phone."

"What? You aren't going to call them and tell them?" asked John.

"Just Lestrade. I'll talk to Mrs. Hudson in person," said Sherlock.

"You can't call Lestrade! You've been gone for three years! You don't just call someone to tell them you've come back from the dead!" cried John.

"Why not?" demanded Sherlock.

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock! Do I really have to explain why?"

"Yes. But first, give me your phone." Sherlock thrust his hand out again. John shook his head.

"No, Sherlock. You can't just send him a text!"

"I wasn't going to! I was going to call him!"

"Big difference!"

"John, I know Lestrade. He'll prefer it if I call to warn him. I'll call him first; then, I'll go talk to him in person," said Sherlock impatiently. John resigned and pulled his phone out of his pocket. Sherlock jumped up to grab it. He dialed Greg's number quickly and put the phone up to his ear. "Yes, hello, Lestrade. This is Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

**A/N** So, I've been working on a lot of later chapters; or, some things that I hope will be later chapters. I have really bad habit of working entirely out of sequence. Either way, I think that some really interesting things will begin develop soon. Thank you so much for reading! Please review; it always makes my day!


	16. For Heaven's Sake

Chapter Sixteen: For Heaven's Sake

Sherlock was rolling his eyes. "No, this isn't a joke. I don't joke," he said into the phone. "Yes, John knows—Yes he's with me—yes it is really me, I told you that already—it shouldn't be that complicated…"

John almost laughed. He could picture Greg on the other end, completely lost. He felt bad that he was enjoying this. Sherlock was obviously growing increasingly frustrated with Lestrade's disbelief. He had begun pacing across John's small flat and he was getting more and more sarcastic by the minute. How Lestrade didn't believe it was Sherlock simply by the insults, John didn't know. Only Sherlock would be such an ass when announcing his return from the dead. When Sherlock started making very rude, entirely uncalled for deductions about Lestrade's personal life, John went over and took the phone from him.

"Yes, Greg, this is John. No he isn't 'shitting' you. Yes, yes, we are coming over," said John. Lestrade seemed to calm down a bit on the other end. John hung up the phone and went to grab his coat.

"What are you doing?" asked Sherlock.

"Leaving, and so are you."

"Why? Where are we going?"

"To Lestrade's house; you are going to go tell him," said John.

"I just told him."

"No, Sherlock, you are going to go tell him in person. You promised," said John. Sherlock looked like he was about to pitch some sort of fit; thankfully he didn't seem to think it worth it. He went to get his own coat as well as his scarf. Sherlock returned in a matter of seconds and marched out the door without another word. John rolled his eyes; sometimes Sherlock was nothing more than an overgrown toddler.

The silence continued throughout the cab ride to Lestrade's. Sherlock glared out the window and John silently reflected on their last couple of days. He was increasingly amazed he had managed to be so composed throughout all of this chaos. He wondered what The Doctor was doing right now. What were Amy and Rory up to? For the most part he seemed to picture them sitting around in the TARDIS playing cards like he had left them. But John couldn't quite believe that. They had probably gone off and found some other adventure to keep them occupied while they waited for Sherlock and John to call.

The car stops outside of Lestrade's house. John and Sherlock get out and John walks up to the door. He turns around to find that Sherlock hasn't moved. "Where are we?" asked Sherlock.

"Lestrade's house. Where do you think we are?" said John.

"I thought we were going to the station."

"It's past nine on a Friday," said John, "Why would he be at the station. Sherlock just shrugged. John realized Sherlock had probably pictured Greg living at the police station for the past eight years. It would be like Sherlock to forget that people have lives that don't include him. Sherlock stood in the shadows behind John as John knocked on the door. Lestrade opened it with a cup of tea in his hand and an irritated look on his face.

"John I don't know what you're playing at bu—

Sherlock stepped forward into the light of Lestrade's porch. Lestrade immediately dropped the mug of tea he had been holding. His eyes widened in shock as his mouth struggled to form words. In the end he just stood there, gaping.

"Hello, Lestrade," said Sherlock. Greg blinked rapidly. He again tried and failed to speak what he was thinking. Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed past Lestrade, going into his kitchen to get a bottle of brandy and a glass.

Sherlock returned with the brandy and poured Lestrade a generous helping. The alcohol seemed to help Lestrade collect his thoughts. At long last he spoke. "You're alive? It's really you?" he stammered, cradling his glass. Sherlock rolled his eyes again and nodded. He was growing increasingly tired of this little routine.

"Yes, I'm alive. Yes, it is really me. Blah, blah, blah," said Sherlock. He once again reminded John of a four year old. Lestrade took a last sip from his drink and handed the empty glass to John. He pushed up his sleeves and punched Sherlock square in the face.

"You son-of-a-bitch!" yelled Lestrade as he swung again. This time Sherlock was prepared and he successfully dodged Lestrade's fist. John dropped the glass in his hands in order to hold Lestrade back. The inspector writhed in his grasp for a few second before calming down. John released him. "Shit, Watson. You're stronger than you look," said Lestrade, rubbing his arm. John laughed.

"Should we go inside?" he asked. Greg nodded and beckoned him in. Sherlock followed stiffly, attempting to stem the flow of blood from his nose.

They sat on Lestrade's couch and waited as Greg made tea and brought Sherlock a towel for his nose. "Um- sorry about the nose, Sherlock," said Lestrade. Sherlock glowered.

"It's fine, perfectly fine," he said. The three of them sat in awkward silence for a while before someone broke it. It was Lestrade.

"So, um, how did you do it?" he asked, "I mean, you had everybody fooled. God, you should have seen poor Molly. It looked like she would never be happy again."

Sherlock smiled when he responded. "Molly was in on it the whole time."

At this Lestrade spit out his tea. "What?!" he practically gasped. Sherlock smiled even wider as he told Lestrade the story of how he survived. Lestrade looked thoroughly amazed at the whole thing. Sherlock seemed pretty pleased with himself; he did love to revel in his own brilliance from time to time. Having heard the story before, and having gotten over the initial shock, John was able to appreciate how brilliant it was that Sherlock had come up with this. _How the hell did he figure out Moriarty's plan?_ thought John. Most likely he would never know. Sherlock wasn't one to give away _all _of his secrets. When Sherlock finished Greg sat there staring wide eyed at the wall. "Well, shit," was all he had to say on the matter.

The three sat and drank, discussing the recent goings on at the station and John's work. Sherlock didn't have much to say about his last three years, as most of that time was spent alone in an apartment. It was well past eleven when they were interrupted by Lestrade's phone. The detective inspector got up wearily and made his way, on shaky legs, to the phone in the kitchen.

"Hello, you're reached Lestrade - Doctor who? - Yes, yes, they're here. How the hell did you know that? - Who are you?" Lestrade turned to John and Sherlock, "It's for you. Some bloke called 'The Doctor.'"

* * *

**A/N** I just wanted to say a quick thanks to all of you who are reading (and hopefully enjoying) this story. I've been writing some drafts for some other stories lately, so this chapter didn't get finished as soon as I had hoped. I hope you like it; please review!


	17. Out of Nowhere

Chapter Seventeen: Out of Nowhere

Sherlock hurried forward to pick up the phone. "I thought we said that I'd call you," he said, irritated. John could hear The Doctor's voice but couldn't make out the words. Suddenly, Sherlock's look of irritation turned to dread. He put the phone down. "John, we have to go."

"What? Why?"

"Now," said Sherlock, already halfway out the door. Whatever The Doctor had said must have been serious. John followed without another question. He followed Sherlock down the street and around the corner, into a dark side street. Not that they were alone, Sherlock spoke.

"It's Amy," he said, "She's sick, John."

John's stomach dropped. _No. No, it couldn't be… _He shook his head, in attempt to clear it. "What do you mean by sick?" he asked, already knowing exactly what Sherlock meant.

"She's caught it; whatever _it_ is. The Doctor said she collapsed in the TARDIS on their way back from ancient Egypt," said Sherlock. His voice was calm, but John could see something very much like terror in his eyes. John's response was interrupted by the loud appearance of a blue box across the street. He and Sherlock rushed over to it. The Doctor opened the door and beckoned them inside.

"She's in her room. Rory's with her," said the time lord. He adjusted his bowtie anxiously. Sherlock pushed past the man into the TARDIS.

"Take me to her," he commanded. The Doctor hurried over to lead him down a flight of stairs and down a short hallway to a little blue door. Sherlock pushed his way inside. John tried to follow, but The Doctor held him back.

"You can't go in there; you could get sick."

"I have to help. Sherlock and Rory are in there," argued John. The Doctor shook his head.

"That's different. Rory is her husband, and Sherlock needs to collect data," said The Doctor. John wanted to simply push the man aside and go in, but he refrained. Instead, he followed The Doctor into the kitchen to make tea.

Sherlock was left alone in the hallway outside Amy's bedroom.

* * *

**A/N** I know, this is hardly a full chapter. It was meant to be part of another longer chapter, but it was taking too long to write. I didn't want to go too long without updating, so I decided to just put this up. (Just a hint as to why it's taking so long to get the new chapter up: It's from Sherlock's point of view.) Please forgive me if it takes a while to post an update. I hope it won't be more than a few days.


	18. My Heart Stood Still

Chapter Eighteen: My Heart Stood Still

The room was dark when Sherlock entered. He felt the wall for a switch; finding it, he turned the lights on. The Pond's bedroom was small and the walls were robin's egg blue. Amy lay on a bed in the center of the room. Rory was lying next to her. Sherlock realized Amy must be unconscious. He stepped forward quietly. Rory looked at him, his eyes were heavy and red from crying; he hadn't even noticed the light go on. He looked at Sherlock with something like desperation. "Please… Please save her…" he whispered. Sherlock stiffened. He didn't know how to respond to that. He knelt down beside Amy; taking her hand in his, he checked for a pulse. She was alive, but barely.

"I need you to leave," said Sherlock to Rory. Rory shook his head.

"I'm not leaving."

"You are if you want me to help her," said Sherlock, tersely. Rory struggled for a moment before getting up. Sourly, he left the room.

Now, Sherlock was able to examine Amy more closely. She really did look awful. Her skin was dry and pale, her eyes were dark rimmed and sunken, her hair hung limp, and her joints were stiff. She was incredibly cold. Sherlock bend down to put his ear to her mouth. Her breathing was ragged and shallow. If she stayed like this she wouldn't last the night. He had to wake her up.

He shook her, a little too roughly. She didn't move, so he tried again; this time he was gentler. Still, Amelia Pond remained limp and oblivious. Sherlock stepped back for a moment to gather his thoughts. _Amelia Pond, the girl who would stay with a man she didn't love because she cared so much. She's running, and waiting, and she's so conflicted. The Doctor hurt her, yet she's entrusted him with her entire life. She's obviously intelligent, but she's blinded by ideas of love and romance…_ Sherlock circled around everything he knew about Amy. He didn't know what to do with her. What would wake her up? He tried shaking her a few more times but it didn't do anything. He didn't want to yell and end up attracting the attention of the others. Could he pour water on her face? There was a glass on the nightstand. He picked it up and splashed it across her eyelids, still nothing. He took her pulse again, just to make sure she wasn't dead. His hand found her neck and felt the unmistakable rhythm of life; she wasn't dead, yet.

Kneeling beside the bed, Sherlock spoke in his most gentle voice; the voice he only ever used with Mrs. Hudson and sometimes John. "Amelia, wake up. Wake up you fool. You'll die if you don't. You'll die because I won't be able to help you. Open your eyes…" He ran his hands through her matted hair, trying desperately not to cringe. This was too strange, too _intimate_. He wanted to get up and leave right then but, just as he was standing up, Amy opened her eyes.

"Rory… Rory, is that you?" she whispered. Her voice was thin and dry.

"I don't look anything like that idiot," grumbled Sherlock as he helped her into a sitting position. She immediately slumped over. It seemed she was too weak to even support her own neck. Irritated, Sherlock propped her up with some pillows. He looked into her eyes. They were dull and rimmed with red. Her pupils were dilated, despite the bright lighting in the room. She was weak; she was dying. He held her face in his hands and examined her eyes closely. He then snaked his hand around to the back of her neck to see if her medulla was swollen; it was. _ A good anti-inflammatory… That's what I need… _though Sherlock. Amy was on the verge of slipping back into the unconscious. Sherlock shook her, "You have to stay awake!" he commanded. Her eyes fluttered and she glared at him. If she had been in any condition to speak she would have most likely treated him to some of her Scottish hospitality. Sherlock, sensing her resentment, nodded and left the room stiffly. "I'll be back in a minute. Do try not to die."

Sherlock returned, exactly a minute later, with his arms laden with various medical supplies. Amy had succeeded in remaining conscious in his absence and attempted to force herself into a sitting position when Sherlock approached her. She, however, could not convince her muscles to undertake such a task and ended up rolling halfway off the bed. Sherlock hurried over to help her back up. He fluffed her pillows a bit as he settled her into the blankets. She tried to smile, but it was more of a grimace. Sherlock began to go through the various bottles and syringes he had brought in. Selecting a bright blue concoction, he inserted a syringe and drew up twenty milliliters of the stuff. Holding it carefully in his right hand, Sherlock made his way over to Amy and turned her over. He took a swab of disinfectant and smoothed it across the back of her neck. "This will hurt, so don't move," said Sherlock as he readied the syringe. Then he stabbed her – right where the top neck met the bottom of her head.

Amy let out a weak cry when the needle penetrated her skin but, she did not move. Sherlock removed the needle slowly. He set it on her bedside table, taking extra care not to touch the blood that remained on it. Amy was taking deep, shaky breaths; obviously she could feel the anti-inflammatory beginning to attack her swollen medulla. Sherlock patted her head awkwardly. Then, Amelia began to convulse; her whole body started shaking violently. Sherlock hurriedly scrambled on top of her to pin her limbs down. Her eyes rolled back as she choked for air. Her chest rose and fell as she thrashed frantically. Sherlock lifted on hand and slapped her hard across the face; it had no effect. His mind raced. _What do I do? She's going to die. I've killed her._ In a desperate attempt to prove his own thoughts wrong, Sherlock reached down and grabbed a small bottle labeled 'Adrenaline' in The Doctor's careful scrawl. He ripped open the buttons on Amy's top – exposing her pale chest. Taking a clean syringe, Sherlock drew out the adrenaline. Then, sitting on Amelia's stomach with his knees pinning down her arms, Sherlock sent the needle into her heart.

Amy gave on last jerk before stilling. Her chest rose and fell at uneven intervals and her breathing was fast and thin. Sherlock remained on top of her for another minute to make sure the adrenaline was working before getting off. He placed the syringe on the nightstand next to the other, before moving to pick up all the bottles and needles he had thrown onto the floor. As he was stacking them neatly on the Pond's desk, he heard a choking noise from behind him. It was Amelia. She was on her stomach with her head hanging over the side of her bed. _She's going to throw up,_ thought Sherlock as he hurried over to hold her hair. Amy dry heaved a few more times before a disgusting mix of bile and biscuits came up. Sherlock grimaced – he hated the smell of vomit. Still, he stayed there and tried his very best to comfort Amy. There was no doubt in his mind that this was the hardest thing he had ever done. Finally, Amy stopped. She rolled over onto her pillow and collapsed. With her eyes closed she spoke, "What did you do to me?"

"I gave an anti-inflammatory, which then seemed to send you into a state of shock and cardiac arrest. So, I gave you an adrenaline injection. Don't worry, vomiting is a perfectly normal side effect," answered Sherlock as he wiped his hands on his pants. Amy grimaced.

"Lovely."

"Yes," said Sherlock dryly. Amy took a steadying breath before speaking again.

"Am I going to die?" she asked, her voice weak.

"No."

"You said that it was lethal. You said that there was no cure."

"No cure, yes. However, I can fight off the affects of the poison as they come. With a regular dosage of anti-inflammatory drugs and constant surveillance I should be able to keep you alive until I have found more permanent solution," said Sherlock matter-of-factly. Amy smiled.

"Can I sleep now?" asked Amy softly. Sherlock nodded.

"Yes, I think that would be good," said Sherlock. Amy settled into her bed.

"Um, Sherlock," she muttered so quietly he could barely hear here, "could you, um, sing to me?"

"No." Sherlock was certainly not going to sink that low.

"Please," she whispered. Sherlock turned around. She was so pale and fragile looking. Her eyes were open now, and she looked at him so sadly. _What if she dies? What if you say no and she dies? God damn it! You aren't supposed to care!_ Sherlock sighed. Rolling his eyes he began to sing the closest thing to a lullaby he could think of.

"The Moon will rise but all in vain  
For there's no use in shining  
While my lady sleeps  
The breeze will sing a sad refrain  
Because her heart is pining  
While my lady sleeps  
Starlight and moonlight and amorous melody wasted  
What can they mean when I'm yearning for kisses never tasted?  
The night may hold a million dreams  
But when her eyes discover, Just a lonely lover  
She will hurry on, with a sigh to the dawn  
While the willow tree weeps, and my lady sleeps."

When he finished, he glanced at Amy. She was fast asleep; her frail hands crossed above her heart. Satisfied with his work, Sherlock left the room to tell John and The Doctor of his success.

* * *

**A/N** Finally! It took forever to write this. I'm not sure how much I like it, but I'm just going to let it happen. I'm sure that there are a ton of medical inaccuracies in it; however, I did do some research. The lyrics for Sherlock's lullaby are from 'While My Lady Sleeps' by Chet Baker. I realize that a lot of Sherlock's thoughts and actions might seem a bit out of character, but it was intentional. I hope you enjoyed it! Please review! I really want to know what you think about this chapter.


	19. Fine and Dandy

Chapter Nineteen: Fine and Dandy

Sherlock made his way to the control room. There, not at all to his surprise, he found John, The Doctor, and Rory. Rory and John were making anxious small talk in the corner while The Doctor paced back and forth, around and around, the room. His bow-tie was terrible lopsided and his hands were raw from wringing. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the man; he lacked any sort of composure. Clearing his throat, Sherlock spoke. "She's fine." All eyes turned to him. John got up and walked over to Sherlock, joy and disbelief in his eyes.

"She's fine? How? What did you do?" asked John. "I thought there was no cure. I thought she was going to die for sure…"

"No, she won't die—well, she might. She's very weak at the moment and will remain so for quite some time, but she should live," said Sherlock.

Upon hearing this, The Doctor jumped up and did something of a jig. Rory clasped his hands over his mouth and tears filled his eyes. John laughed. Even Sherlock allowed himself a smile before he remembered himself. "I have to keep an eye on her until we have found a cure. I don't want you thinking she's better just because she hasn't died yet. Anything could happen, especially in the next few days. She will need to be under constant surveillance. Also, I would like to point out that every one of us is at a heightened risk of coming in contact with the poison. You must all be extremely cautious when handling anything from now on. In fact, I recommend that all of you wear gloves at all times," said Sherlock solemnly. Nobody seemed to be listening.

"Can we go see her?" asked Rory. Sherlock was about to refuse when The Doctor butted in.

"Of course we can! Amelia will be needing company!" He immediately took off down the hall to Amy's room with Rory at his heels. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Don't touch anything!"

"Wouldn't dream of it!" replied the time lord.

John laughed and looked at Sherlock.

"Should we go keep an eye on them?"

"No, let them get some stupid out of their systems," said Sherlock. "I need to go to the lab. We need to develop a cure."

"Don't you want to know who's behind all this? It isn't like you to leave a case unsolved," said John.

"I believe that whoever orchestrated this will make themselves known to me of their own accord. There isn't sufficient evidence to trace them with and a wild goose chase doesn't appeal to our best interests. Right now, our priority is keeping Amelia alive and not getting sick ourselves."

John nodded in agreement. "That seems sensible."

"Of course it does," said Sherlock. John's response was cut short by a crash coming from Amy's room.

"Everything's fine!" called The Doctor, "Fine and dandy! There's no need to come over here! Rory and I have it all under control!"

Sherlock moaned—what had those idiots done this time? He straightened his jacket and marched down the hall. John followed behind him, silently laughing at Sherlock's frustration.

* * *

**A/N** Sorry for another short chapter. I just haven't been in much of a mood for writing lately. Well, I haven't been in much of a mood to write this chapter. I've been drafting some of the more exiting chapters and this is really just a transition/housekeeping. Thanks for reading and please review!


	20. Early Morning

Chapter Twenty: Early Morning

Sherlock and John entered Amy's room to find that The Doctor had succeeded in knocking over the vase of flowers that had stood on Amelia's desk. The time lord was attempting to scoop up the water with his hands and put it back into the broken vase. Rory was picking soaking wet lilies off the floor while trying to avoid the glass that had scattered every which way. Sherlock let out a tired moan.

The Doctor looked up suddenly. He looked at Sherlock like a child caught in the act. "I told you it was fine," he said.

"So you did. I didn't believe you," said Sherlock. Amy laughed from the bed. Sherlock whirled around. "You were supposed to be asleep."

"You should have known when you let those idiots in my room," said Amy, gesturing weakly to Rory and The Doctor. The guilty pair looked at their feet.

"Sorry, Amy," said Rory. He gave his wife a little melancholy smile. Amelia rolled her eyes.

"All of you stop looking at me like that! I'm fine! I'm not going to suddenly drop dead!"

"Well…" began Sherlock. John kicked him hard in the leg. "Ouch! What was that for?" exclaimed Sherlock as he clutched his leg.

"For being a twat," said John. "I'm sorry, Amy. We can leave if you'd like."

Amy shook her head. "No, I like the company." She fell back into her pillows and closed her eyes.

Rory resumed his duty as the doting husband and began stroking Amy's hair. Sherlock shuffled anxiously next to John. John glanced at him; Sherlock had the strangest expression on his face. It was a look John had never before seen on him. He couldn't quite place it, and that worried him.

"You okay, Sherlock?" asked John.

Sherlock looked like he had been awoken from a dream. "Yes, perfectly… I was just remembering that we need to get to work on that cure…"

John looked Sherlock over a few times, not quite believing him. "Okay…"

* * *

The two left The Doctor and Rory to clean up their mess and returned to the lab. Sherlock spent hours bent over a microscope, experimenting with various substances. John watched in silence. He knew Sherlock didn't like to be disturbed. Once again, John felt a pang in his chest. Sherlock wasn't the same. Something was off; John just couldn't place it. It wasn't that Sherlock acted much different, he just didn't feel the same. That was what hurt. John didn't know. He didn't know the man sitting before him anymore. He wanted to go back, back to when he knew things. He wanted to go back to the days when he thought he knew who Sherlock was. _I'm being stupid,_ thought John,_ He's Sherlock, and he's back. Why am I so upset?_

"I think I have something."

John nearly fell off his stool.

"What?"

"It might not be a cure, but I think it's close," said Sherlock.

"Brilliant."

"Yes. Although, I don't think it's safe to test now. I want Amy to get some sleep; she's been through a lot. If, by some chance, what I've come up with has a negative effect, I want her to be in the best health possible in order to deal with it."

John smiled. "That's good though. We've got something?"

Sherlock merely shrugged, holding the vial up to the light. The clear liquid danced in his hand. "I want to move Amelia into your flat…"

"What? Why?" asked John.

"I don't like her being in here. It's too unpredictable. Also, I want to be near her at all times and the TARDIS isn't really in my favour," said Sherlock.

"I don't know if my flat is big enough… I've only got two bedrooms…"

"She can take mine."

"But where will you sleep?"

"I'll make do. Sleep isn't a priority right now anyway."

John rolled his eyes and chuckled a little. "Of course, but what about Rory?"

"What about him?"

"Well, he is her husband."

"He can stay here with The Doctor."

John shook his head as he smiled at the floor. _Sherlock._ He was still terrible at understanding relationships. John didn't bother answering. It would be no use. Rory would just have to give.

Sherlock packed up his things and went to go explain the change in living arrangement to everyone. John followed. Sherlock could not be trusted to do this alone.

* * *

As expected, Rory was none too pleased.

"What? My wife move in with you? You're mad. Of course not!"

"Come on Rory, if it's what's best for Amelia..." said The Doctor, glancing anxiously from Rory to Amy.

"No, absolutely not. She's perfectly fine here."

Sherlock stepped forward. "I would like to point out that she really isn't fine here. She is in a very fragile state and needs to be in a more stable environment," he said smoothly.

"It's perfectly stable here. What are you talking about? This is where Amy wants to be! She wants to be with me and The Doctor, not with two people she's just met."

"I think that what Amelia wants is to live, and I think that she would be more likely to succeed in that if she came with John and me."

Rory looked at Amy again. She was fast asleep. He lowered his voice. "I don't see how her going with you would make any difference."

"I need her for testing. I would prefer to perform said tests in a room that will not jump back three hundred years if John nudges a switch by mistake." John rolled his eyes at Sherlock.

"Rory, I know you don't want to do this. I know that Sherlock is doing nothing to make you feel better about it, but I have to say I agree with him. Amy is in a very delicate state and she will need full medical attention from both Sherlock and me in the coming weeks. It would be much easier to treat her properly in our own home, with our own equipment. Besides, this way The Doctor still has the use of his ship. It may be hard, but it is the best thing to do," said John. Rory seemed to soften. He fiddled with his hands for a bit before sighing in resignation.

"Yeah, all right. Just take care of her, and call me, and stuff," he said to the floor. John smiled and gave him a pat on the shoulder.

"Obviously you'll be able to see her."

"Well…" began Sherlock.

"Shut it," said John.

The Doctor nodded at their agreement and began spouting off ideas of things he and Rory could do to help figure out who was behind the whole ordeal. Sherlock kept telling him how unnecessary that would be and how he had everything under control. Rory argued a bit bitterly from his wife's bedside. John observed the scene with something of irritated amusement.

In a matter of hours, all of Amy's things were packed up and ready to be brought over to John's flat. When Amy awoke, The Doctor told her the news and she agreed quickly. The Doctor flew the TARDIS over to Battersea and beckoned them out.

Sherlock cradled Amy in his arms as he walked across the empty lot to John's building. John followed behind them, yawning as it dawned on him that he hadn't slept.

In the distance, the sun was just beginning to rise.

* * *

**A/N** Okay, so I know it's been an unacceptable amount of time since my last update, and I'm sorry. I just got really stuck and I needed to take a break and come back to the story with fresh eyes. I hope you haven't completely forgotten about me in my absence and I promise that I will be back with more regular updates. Thank you for reading! Please review!


	21. It Could Happen to You

Chapter 21: It Could Happen to You

It was dark out when Amy awoke. The first thing she noticed was a strange skinny man sitting in a chair across the room. She startled, then remembered. That was Sherlock. She was staying with him and John. She was perfectly safe.

"Oh, good—you're awake," he said, getting up from his chair and walking over. He put his hand on her forehead and checked her pulse. "Feeling better, are we?"

"I suppose."

"Excellent! I believe John has made supper. I'm sure it's terrible, but it will have to do. I'll tell him to bring you some?"

"Yeah? That's good. I'm starved," answered Amy. She tried to sit up a bit more, but suddenly felt extremely woozy. Sherlock rushed to tuck her back into her blankets.

"No, don't move. There is no need to push yourself yet; you'll be needing your strength later."

Amy nodded.

"Food?" asked Sherlock.

"Food."

"John! John, Amelia is hungry!" shouted Sherlock. "John!"

"I'm coming!" said John's irritated voice. "For God's sake, Sherlock…" John entered the room carrying a tray with a large bowl of soup and a cup of tea. He placed it next to Amy's bed.

"Thank you, John," she said with a little smile. John nodded at her before turning to Sherlock.

"Do you think you can manage without me for a bit?"

"Of course, why?" replied Sherlock lazily.

"I've got one hell of a headache. I think I need a lie-down," said John.

Sherlock's eyes darted towards John. He looked him over for a bit. "Okay, that's fine," he said before turning back to Amy. John rolled his eyes and left the room.

Amy gave Sherlock a quizzical glance. Something wasn't quite right with him all the sudden. "What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing. Eat your soup—quickly please," said Sherlock.

"Who are you to tell me how quickly I have to eat my food?" grumbled Amy, but she began to eat more rapidly.

When Amy had long finished her soup and was roughly halfway through her tea, Sherlock started to pace about the room.

"Are you sure, you're all right?" she asked, certain that he wasn't.

"Of course. Are you feeling better? Stronger?" he asked her somewhat urgently.

"Yeah, yes… I'm good…"

"Excellent. Then we finally test it."

"Test what?" Amy suddenly found herself nervous.

"My cure," said Sherlock.

"You've got a cure? Already?"

"Yes, didn't I tell you?"

"No."

"Hm, must have slipped my mind," said Sherlock as he rummaged in his pockets. "Here it is!"

He held up a small vial full of clear liquid. Suddenly, he reached out and grabbed the tea cup from Amelia's hands.

"Hey!"

He ignored her and proceeded to pour the contents of the vial into Amy's tea. He swirled it around a few times, apparently to make sure it was mixed in properly before handing it back.

Amy took it. "Thanks…"

"In your own time."

"Yeah, oaky," said Amy before closing her eyes and downing the contents of the cup.

Suddenly, Sherlock was very close to her. Amelia felt her heart beat a bit faster. Sherlock looked deep into her eyes. "How are you feeling?" he asked his anxiety poorly masked.

"Um, I'm fine. I feel about the same," answered Amy. Sherlock nodded.

He didn't break his gaze for at least another minute. Then, a great crash sounded from the sitting room. Sherlock jumped up, suddenly. He ran out of the room, following the sound. We he stepped into the sitting room, his heart stopped.

John lay on the ground. He wasn't moving.

* * *

**A/N:** The plot thickens! Sorry for another longish break. In other news I've started work on a Johnlock fic that I think will be really good. I probably won't post anything from that until I've finished this story though. Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	22. If I Should Lose You

Chapter 22: If I Should Lose You

Sherlock ran across the room.

_Not John._

_Never John._

He pulled John's limp frame into his arms and shook him.

_Breathe._

_Speak._

_Something!_

_Anything…_

Sherlock couldn't think. His mind was blank. Nothing. He could do nothing but sit here in shocked desperation. He knew he should be doing something, calling for help, getting treatment, but he couldn't. His mouth wouldn't move, his limbs were frozen.

_Not John._

It was sheer terror that held Sherlock captive. Terror that took over his body, his mind, his heart. It came over him like a shroud, wrapped too tight over a lifeless body. He sat, empty and frozen. He couldn't think clearly, nothing made sense. Time had stopped. There was only this moment, and in it, Sherlock was helpless.

* * *

Amy sat in her bed. Sherlock had been gone for a long time, far too long. She had heard nothing from the other room. _Should I go to him? Has something happened?_ She only pondered for a moment before getting up and shakily making her way to the sitting room.

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

She knew it as soon as she turned the corner. The air was thick with it.

Sherlock was on the floor with John in his arms. His eyes were filled with something Amy had never seen before. It wasn't fear, or sadness, it wasn't even desperation. It was something so much worse.

"What happened?" she asked. "What's wrong with John?"

Sherlock didn't speak. He didn't respond at all.

"SHERLOCK!"

He jumped suddenly. His eyes went blank. Like a machine, Sherlock sprung into action.

"Amelia, call The Doctor, tell him John is sick, very sick. Then, I want you to get a hold of Molly Hooper— John should have her in his address book somewhere. Tell her to bring anything and everything; she'll know what I mean. But first, go get my bag—the one with all the bottles and needles. Quickly please, thank you," said Sherlock as if making a grocery list.

Amy didn't stop to think. She simply jumped into action. After traveling with The Doctor, she had learned that sometimes you just needed to do what you were told and ask questions later. This was one of those times.

The bag Sherlock had asked for was next to her bed. The Doctor was easy enough to call, in a matter of minutes the TARDIS could be heard materializing across the street. Amy had a harder time getting Molly's number than Sherlock seemed to have anticipated she would. John did have an address book of sorts, but it was in a terrible state of disarray. When she finally found a number labeled "Molly" and dialed it, nobody picked up. Amy left a message and hoped that it would suffice.

* * *

When Amy re-entered the sitting room, it looked entirely different. Sherlock had cleared away all of John's furniture except the couch, which he had placed in the center of the room. John lay on it, still unconscious.

"Did you do what I asked?" inquired Sherlock, noticing Amy's presence.

"Yeah, here's your bag… Molly didn't pick up but I left a message. The Doctor is outside, I believe."

"I'll call Molly. She'll pick up for me," said Sherlock hastily. "Go let The Doctor in. Keep your boyfriend outside."

"He's my husba—

"I don't care," interrupted Sherlock. "Do not let him in. His nose is a hazard in itself."

Amy had to stifle a laugh. She gave Sherlock what she hoped was a convincing glare and went to the door.

The Doctor was, indeed, waiting outside. Rory was with him. His face lit up at the sight of his wife and he rushed forward to hug her.

"Not now, Rory," said Amy. Rory deflated a little.

"What is it Amelia?" asked The Doctor. "What's happened?"

"It's John… Sherlock needs help… It's not looking good, Doctor…"

"Where are they?"

"Just in there," said Amy, gesturing to the sitting room. The Doctor nodded, straightened his bow tie, and went in.

"Rory, how about you and I go for a little walk?" suggested Amy.

"Don't they need our help?" asked Rory, a little suspiciously.

"I think they can manage just fine without us."

Rory nodded and took Amy by the arm.

* * *

Sherlock put down the phone. Molly would be over in ten minutes. He turned back to John. _Why John? Of all people, why John?_ Sherlock shook his head to shut down such thoughts. Now was not the time.

He picked up the bag Amelia had brought him and began rummaging through it. He still had a few bottled of the treatment he had given Amelia, and that had seemed effective enough. However, he had given that to her after the worst of the poisons effects… There was no telling what it would do if administered as a front line cure. Sherlock decided against using it just yet.

"Anything I can do?"

Sherlock spun around in surprise. How had he not noticed The Doctor come in?

"Um, I need to run some elementary tests on John… If you could handle some sort of scan… I don't have the equipment here…" trailed Sherlock. He shook his head again. _Pull yourself together!_ he ordered himself.

"As it happens, I do," said The Doctor.

"You do what?"

"Have the equipment." The Doctor smiled and held something up for Sherlock to see.

"That's a screwdriver," said Sherlock.

"A _sonic_ screwdriver," corrected The Doctor.

Sherlock didn't quite understand why The Doctor was smiling like a child guilty of robbing the cookie jar but decided to let it go. The man was obviously not quite right in the head. "I am assuming that I have missed something," began Sherlock, "so, if you would like to show me what you mean by 'sonic screwdriver' I recommend doing it now."

The Doctor wiggled his fingers excitedly. "Yes, yes, of course. Well, you see, it's basically a screwdriver, but you know—sonic. It does stuff, cool stuff, sonic stuff."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Just scan him, however you do it, I don't care."

"Of course," said The Doctor, getting to work.

Sherlock turned back to his bag. He needed to wake John up. That was the most important thing right now. Get him conscious, keep him conscious. He found some adrenaline and set it to the side—he might need that again. What did he do for Amelia? She had already been conscious…

The Doctor interrupted Sherlock's thoughts. "It's not good…" muttered the time lord.

"How 'not good'?" prompted Sherlock.

The Doctor pursed his lips and wrung his hands. "Well, it's got to his brain."

"Obviously."

"Yes, well, the brain and also his heart, Sherlock."

"What do you mean?" asked Sherlock quietly.

"It's attacked his papillary muscles. They've begun to deteriorate."

"We have to wake him up," said Sherlock going over to John. "Get me a bucket of ice water."

"No, no, much too messy," said The Doctor.

"Do you have a better idea?" said Sherlock, irritation all over his face.

"Zap him with this." The Doctor held out his screwdriver. "Quick shock, John wakes up."

Sherlock exhaled, "Go ahead."

The Doctor fiddled with his screwdriver for a moment, trying to find the right setting. When he did, he held it to John's chest.

_**Zap!**_

* * *

**A/N **Yay! A new chapter! I had quite a bit of fun writing this one. I hope you liked it too!


	23. My Future Just Passed

_"Zap him with this." The Doctor held out his screwdriver. "Quick shock, John wakes up."_

_ Sherlock exhaled, "Go ahead."_

_ The Doctor fiddled with his screwdriver for a moment, trying to find the right setting. When he did, he held it to John's chest._

_**Zap!**_

* * *

Chapter 23: My Future Just Passed

John's body jolted.

Sherlock cradled John's face in his hands. "John, can you hear me? John?"

John moved his lips, a low moan escaped them.

Sherlock smiled. "John? How are you feeling?"

John shuddered. A series of incomprehensible sounds came from deep in his throat.

Sherlock's smile faltered. "John! Speak to me! John?"

John could not speak. His eyelids drooped and his chest spasmed. He reached his hand out to Sherlock.

Sherlock held on to it like a lifeline.

"Doctor, get me the adrenaline from my bag!"

"I— are you sure that's a good idea?" asked The Doctor carefully.

"Get it, _now_!" Sherlock's voice came out like a hiss. He did not turn to The Doctor, he looked only at John.

The Doctor understood, as one so old often does, that there was no argument to be made, that this was not his place to make suggestions. He got the adrenaline and handed it to Sherlock.

"A needle, I need a needle," said Sherlock. He held the adrenaline in his left hand while his right was still locked with John's.

The Doctor brought him the needle.

"Draw it out," commanded Sherlock, handing the bottle back to The Doctor.

"Shouldn't yo—" The Doctor stopped. He drew out the adrenaline as Sherlock asked.

"Inject him."

"Sherlock, I really think you should…"

"I can't. I'm compromised. Look at my hands, they shake. I could make a fatal error. You have to do it. Right in the heart," said Sherlock, his voice shaking.

"Are you sure? I mean, it is rather extreme," questioned The Doctor.

"Of course I'm sure! Just do it! Now!" Fire flashed in Sherlock's eyes as he turned to look at The Doctor.

The time lord sighed, and sent the needle into John's heart.

John's body seized up. He shook, violently. Sherlock held him down to keep him from hurting himself. A gasp escaped John's lips. He cried out. His eyes rolled back. His chest shuddered violently and took in a series of broken breathes. It was as if his were empty bags in his chest, unable to accept the air he took in. John's heart felt as though it was going to burst, it beat with ought rhythm or pace, struggling to free itself from John's ribcage.

Sherlock held John tightly, rocking him in his harms, pleading with him.

"Oh, come on, John! John! Don't you dare! Look at me, John! Look at me, and don't you dare die on me!" cried Sherlock.

John gasped again.

"John Watson, don't you dare!" Sherlock grabbed John's shaking face in his hands, and kissed him.

A milky silence fell upon Sherlock's world. Everything stopped. In a moment, nothing existed at all. In a moment, he didn't even exist. He was nothing, and nothing was everything.

John coughed.

Sherlock flashed back to the world where his best friend was dying.

John looked into Sherlock's eyes and smiled a crooked little smile. Sherlock smiled back, relief hanging in the air. John's eyes rolled back. He stilled.

Relief dropped and shattered on the floor.

For a moment, Sherlock was sure he had lost him. John was gone.

But then, John took a breath.

It was the most beautiful breath in the world.

"I had you there, didn't I?" said John weakly.

"I can't argue that," said Sherlock, smiling.

John tried to respond, but choked on his breath.

Sherlock jumped up to go look in his bag for something. John stopped him. "I'm fine, Sherlock. I'm fine," he wheezed.

Sherlock turned around, his brows knit. "I'm just going to give you some prednisone."

"I don't need it I'm fine…"

"Shut up. You are not fine; you very nearly died on me a moment ago. Stop being an idiot, John, and take it," said Sherlock, handing John the medicine.

John took it with shaking hands. He attempted to raise the liquid to his mouth but he couldn't keep his hands steady. Sherlock steadied him and helped John raise the bottle to his lips. He didn't take his hands off John's until John had swallowed the entire portion. John shuddered and wiped his mouth on his dirty sleeve.

"I— thanks," he murmured.

"Not at all," replied Sherlock, standing up and smoothing out his clothes.

The two looked at each other for a moment. Both opened their mouths to say something, but stopped upon seeing the other was about to speak. They stood there, tight lipped and trying to find the words for what they were feeling.

"A moment ago, you—" began John.

"I think I may have miscalcu—" said Sherlock at the same time.

The two stopped again, laughing uncomfortably, gesturing for the other to go on.

Sherlock looked around the room. His eyes fell on The Doctor and he started. "I forgot you were here," he said, almost bitterly.

"Yep, thought I should stay out of the way for—you know—you and John," said The Doctor lightly.

Sherlock swallowed a strange lump in his throat and looked back at John. He began to say something—

A knock sounded at the door, followed by a crash, and some high pitched swearing.

"Will that be the lovely Miss Hooper?" inquired The Doctor.

"Molly's here?" asked John, rather confused.

"Yes, I requested her assistance," said Sherlock.

"Are you going to let her in, or should I?" said John from the floor with a mischievous glint in his eye.

Sherlock scowled. "I was just about to do that, John."

John smiled, stifling a cough.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went to the door.

* * *

**A/N** I know! I took forever with this chapter! It was a lot harder to write than I anticipated and just wasn't happy with anything I wrote for the longest time. I hope it turned out okay in the end, and I'm sorry it took so long. Please review! It's always great to get your opinions!


	24. The Letter

Chapter 24: The Letter

Sherlock opened the door to find a very anxious looking Molly. He stopped and frowned. There was a whimpered "Ohhh" and a thud behind Molly.

Sherlock sighed. "I see you brought Mrs. Hudson."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I just…it sounded…like John… I knew she would have wanted to see him…" stammered Molly, looking at the ground.

"I understand," said Sherlock. "I'm sure it's what John would have wanted."

Molly clasped her hands over her mouth. "He's not—he's not dead, is he?"

"No. John's fine."

Molly relaxed, clearly relieved. "Are you going to invite us in, then? I think Mrs. Hudson could use a good cup of tea."

Sherlock shuffled a bit. "Yes, yes… of course. Uh, Doctor?"

The Doctor jumped forward. "Hello, Molly! It really is a pleasure! I've heard so much about you! Well, not _so _much, but you have been mentioned!" Molly turned bright red as The Doctor planted a kiss both her cheeks. "And, of course, Mrs. Hudson!" he cried. "Should we help get her inside?" He scrambled over to help a slowly recovering Mrs. Hudson up from the hallway floor.

"Um, well, that's very kind of you…" said Molly, leaning in to assist the strange man.

"No need!" he said as he pulled Mrs. Hudson up into a standing position and helped her walk into the flat. He led both her and Molly over to the small kitchen table and sat them down. "I'll get the tea!" He smiled and began rummaging about in the kitchen.

Sherlock stood off to the side, out of Mrs. Hudson's direct line of sight. He glanced at John who had fallen asleep on the couch. _He shouldn't do that,_ thought Sherlock, but he didn't wake him up. Instead he walked over to Molly and Mrs. Hudson, careful not to surprise the latter.

Mrs. Hudson shuddered again, putting a hand over her heart. Sherlock suspected she might faint again, but she didn't. "Oh, Sherlock! Is that really you?" she gasped.

"Yes, it is really me," said Sherlock, perhaps more gently than normal. He had always had a soft spot for the woman, though he would never admit it to her or anyone else.

Mrs. Hudson's eyes began to glisten with tears. "Oh, I thought you were gone! I thought… I had hoped… John sometimes came to me with theories, but I never gave them much thought… Oh, Sherlock! I'm so happy!"

"Don't cry, Mrs. Hudson. There is really no need for that," said Sherlock in response to the tear now falling freely down Mrs. Hudson's cheeks.

"I know… I'm just being silly…"

Sherlock allowed a twitch of a smile. Molly turned to face him. "You called me here for John, didn't you? Should I see him? I mean—

"Yes, he's on the sofa if you want to examine him. I'm interested to hear your findings."

Molly blushed and excused herself; bring her bags of medical equipment with her. Sherlock sat down at the table in her place. Mrs. Hudson reached out to hold his hand, and he let her.

John opened his eyes as Molly knelt beside him. He coughed and tried to push himself up onto an elbow. Molly stopped him.

"No, John. Just lie down. I only want to check your heartbeat and blood pressure."

"Shouldn't I sit up for that?" asked John.

"You don't have to," said Molly rifling through her bag. "I also brought some more anti-inflammatory drugs in case you need them."

"I think Sherlock has the medication under control."

"Oh, well yes, of course, I just thought it might—it couldn't hurt to have some more, just in case…" blushed Molly.

John felt a flush of guilt. "Oh, no, Molly. I didn't—thank you. It really is a great help."

Molly smiled a bit as she held the stethoscope to John's chest. "It's, um, very irregular," she muttered as she listened to John's heartbeat. "I think that might be a problem. Are you tense or nervous? That could be making it worse."

"I think it might have something to do with almost dying a minute ago and being pumped full of Sherlock's mystery drugs," said John, trying to shrug it off. Molly smiled and tidied up her things.

"I don't know what else Sherlock wanted me to do…"

"That's fine, Molly," said Sherlock, who had made his way over to them. "I believe I can handle it from here."

Molly picked up and moved back over to the table with Mrs. Hudson, undoubtedly listening in on Sherlock and John's conversation.

"I have a remedial vaccine. Obviously, at this point, a vaccine isn't what you need. I plan to administer it to you anyway. I also have some of the remedy I gave to Amelia that will be much more effective in your case. Unfortunately, I can't give that to you now, as your body is far too weak to cope with such strong medication just yet. Given to you now, it could over stimulate your immune system and send you into a state of shock or cardiac arrest. I am perfectly capable of maintaining current condition until your body has recovered enough to handle the cure," said Sherlock, not really looking at John.

John coughed a bit. "Yeah, sure, sounds good…"

"Yes, it is a far more hopeful situation than Amelia's appeared to be."

"Wait, where is Amy?" said John, just noticing her absence.

"She and Rory left. They were in the way," answered Sherlock.

"You think we should call them? You know, tell them it's okay to come back?"

"No, John, there's no need. In fact, they're right outside," said Sherlock with a glance towards the door.

It was only a few moments later that Amy and Rory entered the room smiling at the sight of a seemingly well John and they all enjoyed a moment of relief. "Oh! Thank god! We were so worried! It looked pretty bad when I left, I didn't think you'd make it!" said Amy rushing over to John.

"I'm fine, thanks to everyone help," said John, who was starting to crave some privacy.

Rory was still hovering around the edge of the scene, obviously not too comfortable with the situation—probably due to the skeletal detective glaring at him. "I—uh—we got your mail," said Rory nervously stepping forward to hand it to John. Sherlock, however, intercepted and snatched the mail up himself.

"Oi! That's private!" said John.

"Not anymore," said Sherlock nonchalantly as he flipped through the letters. Then, his expression froze. He thrust the pile of mail back into Rory's arms, removing one unmarked envelope with a red wax seal. John's breath caught in his throat as he caught the flicker of fear in Sherlock's eyes.

"It isn't…" John trailed off, afraid to finish the thought. Sherlock cast him a quick glance before opening the envelope and pulling out a letter, written in a perfect hand.

If you think you're safe, think again.

Tell John I said hello.

XX

* * *

**A/N **Sorry for the ridiculously long absence! There really is no excuse. I was busy, and stressed, and I needed a break. I hope you guys can forgive me and I promise to get back to updating more regularly. Apologies aside, I hope you like this chapter. Please review and tell me what you think!


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